


Wilting

by SierraLaufeyson13



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gravedigger Theory, no sansa bashing, slight hints at OFC/Jory from the past, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2018-07-11 12:52:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 131,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7052431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SierraLaufeyson13/pseuds/SierraLaufeyson13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But he who dares not grasp the thorn<br/>Should never crave the rose."<br/>― Anne Brontë</p><p>All men must die. All roses must wilt.</p><p>A streak of wildness and steel eyes. Two distinctly Stark features yet they belong to Anya Whent as well. She may have been born a Southern lady but it's the blood of the North that runs through her veins. A runaway at the tender age of ten, the girl was raised among Lord Rickard's children. Alongside Eddard and Benjen she trained, with Lyanna she learned. Behind a pretty face is a kind heart and gentle soul though within a beast lurks. A beast that takes a Hound to tame it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Epigraph

_Have you ever loved a rose,_

_and bled against her thorns;_

_and swear each night to let her go,_

_then love her more by dawn._

–Lang Leav

 


	2. Prologue

The stories were all so fascinating, a tale of handsome knights and fair ladies, of dragons and bravely fought wars. It always amazed the girl how simple words could paint such elaborate and beautiful pictures on the canvas of her mind. The girl, no more than eight at the time, scurried around the library of Harrenhal looking for her next read, the next great adventure to immerse herself in. At such a young age, she had already lived and died a hundred lifetimes and that was the magic of books. She was a lady, as the old Septa and her mother had reminded her many times when she would stray into the courtyard with a wooden sword in hand. According to their wisdom and advice ladies did not partake in such frivolous activities. For that she devoted many hours to reading, it was the closest she would come to engaging in swordfights and slaying dragons.

Two short years passed, now she was a girl of ten, and nothing had changed, though perhaps she was becoming more trouble for her poor mother, still expressing more interest in fighting with stable and butcher boys than taking her dancing lessons. Her lust for adventure was insatiable in many ways, sometimes she would sneak off during the night and climb the trees just outside of the castle's walls pretending that she could see the entity of Westeros. Other nights she took to God's Eye Lake, pretending to be some sea creature of faraway lands.

Today the girl read about the history of her home, finally finding the courage to read a true account that more so belonged in her fictitious books than in the history of Harrenal. She had only just turned the page that mentioned the size and might of Balerion the Black Dread when the shrill voice of the Septa called out her name. "Anya!" The little Lady ignored the calls and continued reading, enamored by the way the dragon was described. She imagined a creature who was large enough the swallow whole towns with his shadow, with teeth like swords, claws like daggers, and wings so strong and wide the winds of a hurricane were produced on land. Septa Nyla had come to the door of the library, not even hesitating to open the large doors.

The faithful woman was taken aback by the girls appearance, still clad in a stained nightshirt, Anya was lying next to a dying fire with an open book. Her honeyed curls looked more like straw for a bird's nest than anything and her reluctance to leave the library had ensured that any of the remained soot from when the castle was burned had transferred from the stone to her skin. "By the gods' child, you've only an hour to prepare for the tourney!" The daughter of Lord Walter and Shella Whent sat up with crossed arms.

"I don't want to go," she protested, a dangerous defiance appeared in her steel colored eyes. Septa Nyla sat next to the girl and stroked back the tangled mess of hair. "Your father is hosting this tournament in your honor, child. You must go."

Anya looked up at the Septa with furrowed and angry brows, "No, he's not. He's doing it to boast about our strength in hopes to be on better terms with King Aerys." There were many people who looked at the little Lady as if she were nothing more than a pretty face, unintelligible about the politics of the realm, yet in the sentence, all those claims would have been disproven. Septa Nyla frowned and tipped Anya's pert chin up, "Whatever the true reason may be, you are the queen of love and beauty, it would be a shame if the world could not see such a face."

The girl looked back down at the open book in front of her, "I'd rather read," Septa Nyla looked at the girl with a sense of pity, she was a good child, but her soul was far too wild to be tamed. Septa Nyla picked up the thick tome Anya had been reading, marked the page, and set it aside in a place where she could easily find it again. The little Lady knew better than to argue and reluctantly she trailed beside the frail old woman. Knights, singers, jesters, and lesser houses from around the kingdom had come to Harrenhal, Anya had watched them arrive day and night for the past week, yet her books were much more interesting. A book could never let her down; life, however, could. Her young chambermaid, Kaela, braided and curled Anya's hair into a coiffed style that was typical for Southern ladies, with extravagant twists and numerous pins to hold each strand in place. It exerted a painful amount of pressure on her scalp.

A heavy knock on the wooden door of her room was a forlorn sign that her father was on the other side. Kaela opened the door, curtsying before the Lord of the House, Lord Whent did not even have to command her to leave the room; she did so in fearful silence. Walter Whent took his daughter's chin between a rough thumb and forefinger, ungently. "You will sit perfectly still and only speak when spoken to, remember your lessons and manners. If you do something to embarrass this family I will burn your precious books. Am I clear, Anya?" Over the past two years she had become accustomed to such threats and to save her books, the only true friends she had in the lonely castle walls, she always acted like a perfect little Lady when the time came.

"Yes, father." Pleased with his daughter's reply, Lord Whent dropped a crown of white roses on her head and left. Lord Whent was a harsh man, not intentionally as her mother had once tried to explain after his words had sent a girl of seven crying to her chambers at a summer feast after spilling her cup of watered down wine, but due to circumstance. The Lord of Harrenhal had no living sons, Shella Whent had borne him four sons before the birth of her beloved daughter, though none had lived to see the tender age of ten. A winter had claimed two, a strange sickness another, the last son born died before his first name day. From the pain of loss, they were given a daughter, healthy and strong, but a daughter is not what Lord's wished to have. Daughters could not keep a House's name or legacy, for that a father needed sons.

With a solemn air surrounding the small girl, she followed her mother to the central stands to be seated next to Elia Martell, the Dornish ladylove that had been betrothed and married to the Targaryen prince. As was common of tournaments, a mêlée was held first. Men wearing their house colors and sigils fought chaotically with blunted swords. An hour passed, Anya shifted in her seat which brought her father's disapproving gaze to her, but she righted herself and smiled as Elia complimented the crown of flowers that adorned her hair. A second hour passed before the first champion of the tournament was named, it had been a member of House Toyne, across his breast was a winged heart, black on gold, and in victory, he had cried the House's words: " _Fly High, Fly Far_."

The second day was far more exciting than the first, three champions were named in the jousting competition that had taken place, a Frey, a Blount, and a Haigh knight had all taken a prize. While the joust itself had been average and well performed it was the final knight of the day that caused a stir. The Knight of the Laughing Tree had appeared on the lists, challenging the three champions. The knight was small, short of stature no doubt, perhaps even stunted and wore armor that was ill-fitting and mismatched. He had worn no house colors or sigils that could place which house the mysterious knight hailed from, the only identifier was upon his dented shield. A heart tree of the old gods, a white weirwood with a laughing red face. The true upset came when the knight unhorsed the three champions with a startling amount of ease and left soon after, hardly accepting any praise.

Anya was curious and as her father had demised her to ready for the feast, she caught sight of the mysterious knight and followed the lone figure as he entered the Stark tent. Lyanna Stark was laughing to herself, unaware of her trailing shadow until she removed the old helm and pulled her dark braid free, "You're a girl! And you participated in the tournament! And won!" Anya exclaimed with sheer disbelief, she had never believed such a thing could happen until today, until now.

A panicked look came across the Stark girl's face, she couldn't have been much older than Anya, maybe by four or five years. "Please don't tell my brothers, my father will not be happy to learn of such a thing," the Whent girl could only nod, still awestruck by discovering such a thing. Lyanna smiled at the girl and knelt, still in the mismatched armor but hardly anyone would think to look for her in Lord Stark's tent. "I'm Lyanna Stark, and you must be Anya Whent," unsure of what to say, Anya nodded, but the Northern girl spoke again and the Southern girl's face glowed at the suggestion. "Could you show to the library after the day's festivities are over? I've heard Harrenhal's collection is much more spectacular than Winterfell's."

-

When the Knight of the Laughing Tree did not come the next day, King Aerys was wroth and sent his son, the prince, to search for the mysterious knight and bring him to court. Rhaegar returned to the tournament, not an hour after the search had begun, he carried the painted shield of the knight as it was found hanging just outside the castle walls in a dying tree. Anya had seen Lyanna wink and smile at her when the discovery was announced, the little Lady had to stop herself from laughing aloud.

The last day of the tourney had come, the events of the previous nine days had all been a blur. Every night there had been feasts with so much food that Anya could not bear the thought of seeing another roast boar in her life, nor did she fancy the thought of having to drink more watered down wine and sit by her mother and father's sides the entire night, reciting the pretty words the Septa had taught her like a pretty little mockingbird. Compliments given to her beauty and discussions among the Lords in attendance frightened her, especially when they proposed the idea of joining houses through marriage. She found herself looking at her mother, pleading that she would not allow it.

Though a peculiar sight had caught her attention on the third day, she had seen three members of the House Clegane, a father and his two sons, each wearing a golden surcoat with three snarling dogs. The eldest son was a hulking boy with more brawn than brains undoubtedly, the younger tried his hardest to conceal a terrible scar that covered half his face but he couldn't have been much older than her. Gathering the courage, she asked Lothor, her protector about the boy, he knew little of the incident, only saying that the father claimed that the boy's bedding had caught fire.

Anya sat with her ankles crossed and hands folded in her lap, a new dress had been made for her to wear on the final day. Satin dyed to be the color of sage swathed her petite, girlish frame, the design itself was simple, but the beauty was in the details. Crystals and pearls were sewn in the shapes of bats, only when the sun shone could you see them. It was the sigil of her house. The last day of the joust would see a new queen of love and beauty crowned, or the title would remain with her until the next great tourney. While her title rested on the knights appointed by her father, for a maiden nearing eleven she looked the part.

Prince Rhaegar was, even to her young eyes, a handsome man. He embodied every quality of the gallant knights she had read about. Fair and brave, kind and talented. He was to compete today, many had already stated the prince would undoubtedly win. For that Anya worried, she was not vain or possessive of the title that had been given to her but she feared what her father would say or do should the title be lost to another. The first of the pairs to compete was the prince and Brandon Stark, within three runs Rhaegar had broken all three lances and on the third joust, he had knocked the firstborn of Lord Rickard off his saddle. Ser Dayne and Royce were each easily defeated with well-struck blows, the last of the knights to come and challenge the prince was Ser Barriston Selmy, he was the knight charged by Lord Whent to protect his daughter's honor and title.

It had taken five rounds before Ser Barriston was unhorsed; when the prince was named Champion of the Tourney, he was given a crown of blue roses to give to the lady he named to be the queen of love and beauty. Naturally, the gathered audience expected him to name his wife, but with a scandalous move, Prince Rhaegar named Lyanna Stark. She was glad for her friend, but Shella Whent looked at her daughter with a sad expression. It was with that sorrowful glance that a girl of only ten determined she would run faraway, north, maybe all the way to the Wall.

With her father's permission to ready herself for the impending feast, Anya ran to her room, locking the door behind her. She drug out a leather pack and stuffed three outfits into the bag, moments later she remembered all her precious books. Changing from the fancy dress she had worn throughout the day and into a simple shift, the girl raced to the library and gathered all the books she could manage. She had chosen five, only five books out of hundreds, they were the ones she had spent the most time with, those pages were her dearest friends.

When it was announced that the Starks would be setting off before the feast, Anya saw her opportunity. She crawled into the back of a cart and hid under pelts of fur and leather, after an hour the cavalcade set off and the more distance there was between her and Harrenhal the happier she became.


	3. One

The work was hard for one not accustomed to scrubbing pots and floors. Anya's knees were bloody from cleaning the kitchen floor after the autumn feast. Once soft hands had calloused over in a short amount of time and though the Starks treated their workers well, she was thinning and had to cut a new hole in the leather belt around her waist just to keep the wool pants from falling down. There were many things she missed about living in Harrenhal, the library mostly, and the weather, but to be away from her father and his harsh word's was a blessing, no matter how hard she had to work in return for food and shelter.

"Girl!" She questioned if the shout was directed at her, and undoubtedly it was as there was no one else in the kitchen at this hour except for the old hag who had been brewing a medicine. "Take this to Eddard's room, tell him that this draught will help with his stomach ache," spidery fingers shoved the warm tankard of tonic into her shaking hands, without question Anya left the warmth of the kitchen and ventured into the cold Northern night.

Eddard Stark's voice sounded hoarse when he spoke aloud, granting Anya permission to enter the room. He was seventeen now and still growing. "My lord, I've come to give you a tonic for your ailment." She could see that he was pale, more so than usual, and a thin sheen of sweat had gathered on his brow. The brew had lost some of its warmth but still wispy tendrils of smoke rose from the foul colored liquid. "Thank you." Quickly she curtsied on wobbling knees and turned back when the second born child spoke again. "I've seen your face before."

Anya froze and kept her eyes on the stone floor, unable to look up. "I'm only a scullery maid," but the quiet wolf was not so easily fooled by her humility and skittishness. There was still something about the girl that spoke of her noble birth. '"You were at Harrenhal during the tourney!" The level of surety within Lord Eddard's voice told her that no amount of lying and pleading could conceal the truth any longer yet she still tried to play the role of serving girl, a scullery maid, nobody.

The Whent girl dared to meet Ned's gaze, his grey eyes were a reflection of his mood and now they were somewhere between the softness of fog and the hardness of steel. Anya shook her head, wincing as she continued on with the lie. "You must be mistaken. I must go, my lord. I bid you a good rest," before the young lord could offer any consolation to the girl and ask why she was so far from home she had fled into the night, returning to her chambers with only a threadbare blanket and dying fire for warmth.

-

As the next morning broke over the land Anya Whent carried out her daily tasks with apprehension, every glance that was cast in her direction seemed to be treacherous, accusing her of some terrible crime against the realm. With shaking hands she scrapped the burned bits of bacon from a cast iron pan, hardly noticing when the knife slipped in her grasp and made a clean slit within her palm. The pain did not faze her while she worked, only when a household guard came into the kitchens wearing dark leathers and heavy furs did she notice the blood. "Lord Rickard has asked to see you," after the events of the night prior she knew it was only a matter of time before she would have to answer why she was hiding as a maid in Winterfell and why she had run away from Harrenhal. The walk across the snowy courtyard had seemed miles in the frigid air, nothing burned like the cold.

The members of the Stark family had gathered in the Great Hall of Winterfell; Maester Walys and Ser Rodrik with his young nephew, Jory, were present as well. Anya glanced down at her poor appearance and wondered what they must have thought of her. A highborn lady pretending to be a maid, surely they saw her as a craven. Rickard Stark sat next to his wife, Lady Lyarra. Beneath a stern brow and withered grey eyes was the kindness of a father looking upon a lost child.

Lyarra Stark took her lord husband's hand, rather gently, and spoke with nothing but her clear blue eyes. Long silences had always caused Anya to be on edge, most often when she was scolded for something there was a long silence before her father yelled and cursed her, raising his hand but never striking. But there had been one time when she was struck, not by his hand, but by a whip and the two scars stung on her back at the memory.

Suddenly the Whent girl could not bear to look upon the Starks and in silence she sobbed, her shoulders shaking as she imagined what they were planning to do with her. Brandon Stark saw a likeness in the young girl that reminded him of Lyanna and at seeing the girl cry he stood from his seat at the high table, pulled off his cloak and wrapped it snuggly around Anya's shoulders, tipping her chin up so that she could see his smile. The young pup, Benjen, was the next to come to her side. He was only three years older than her, thin as a blade with piercing blue eyes that looked at the girl in a kindly fashion. He smiled at her and took a step closer to her side.

Lyanna turned to her father, speaking to him in a soft voice so the words would not reach Anya. Benjen reached down, taking the Whent girl's uninjured hand into his. Lord Rickard stood from his seat, as did Lyarra and the two remaining Stark children that had not joined the frightened girl, "Anya Whent, you will be permitted to stay here in Winterfell under the condition that if Lord Whent comes to take you back you will go with him," the little Lady looked up in disbelief, she had expected to be sent back to Harrenhal immediately, to be punished, something harsher than being welcomed.

"Thank you, Lord Stark." Brandon and Benjen each placed a hand on her shoulder, Lyanna smiled and even Eddard had a certain warmth in his eyes as he looked down at his new sister. "Follow me, sweet child," Lyarra Stark offered her hand to the frightened girl to take. Her kindness reminded Anya of her own mother, but Lyarra was more withered in appearance, her dark hair was dry and her smile, though kind, spoke of the cruelty of the land. Anya followed without question from the Great Hall and through the open courtyard to the sleeping quarters of the noble family. The walls were hewn from granite, over a hot spring, warm water circulated through the walls of the Great Keep, keeping the chill at bay, a comfort even Harrenhal did not have.

Lady Stark showed the girl a room, furnished with an array of old clothing that was near her size. "Your room will be near Lyanna's, you will dine with us, take lessons from our mentors, and be raised the Northern way." Anya had no objections to such requests, with no reserve, she wrapped her arms around the lady's waist and was pleasantly surprised when Lyarra lifted her up for a moment to return the embrace. When they parted, Lady Stark gathered a wash basin and strip of cloth. Having experience with her own children made cleaning and bandaging the girl's hand easy. Lyarra placed a kiss upon Anya's forehead. "We'll see you at supper, dearest."

-

Winter was approaching in the North, the days grew shorter and the nights longer with each one colder than the last. The gathering clouds had burst and flakes of snow fell gracefully, dancing on tendrils of icy wind with no care in the world, each one different and beautiful. Anya was entranced while reading one of her books. Suddenly the world was not grey and she was no longer in the North, but in the South at her birthplace once again. The towers that rose to nauseating heights stood before her, the stone unburnt and red in color.

 _From the south, a shadow approached. The leaves on the tree began to bristle, the sky itself darkened_. A great shadow approached from the south, she imagined the size of Balerion the Black Dread once more. On the open field surrounding the Kingsroad she could almost see the winged shadow, covering the land _. Knights trembled in their helms at the coming sight, the Black Dread had come. The siege was quick and terrible. The wrath of all seven hells was in the dragon's fiery breath. Stone melted and burned_. _The stroke of the beast's wings caused towers to fall and Harrenhal was forever scarred._

All she had ever known were the scars left behind. She dreamt of seeing the great castle in all its glory but the damage had been done and none cared enough to rebuild the broken and burned towers. Instead, they made up tales of ghosts and curses that spread over the land like a wildfire during a drought.

Benjen had found her sitting on the Eastern wall overlooking the Kingsroad as the rolling hills that had once been a greenish brown grew to be covered in a thin blanket of snow, an old tome opened in her lap. It was one of the books she had saved from Harrenhal, a tedious read to some about the Targaryen dynasty and events that occurred during their reign. She came to a stop midways in the chapter that described the burning of Harrenhal. The young pup had brought a loaf of bread and aged cheese, wordless they shared the snack before supper would be announced.

The boy stole a wayward glance at the words inscribed on the page, catching the name of the castle his sister was originally from. "What was Harrenhal like?" Anya was startled by the question and Benjen's sudden interest, she closed the book and placed it under her cloak. "Truthfully, it is a frightening place," it was no lie, thorny bushes and vines had overtaken part of the castle grounds. In some places, it was not safe to walk as the burnt stone would crumble underfoot. She had witnessed several people fall from great heights as they scaled the burnt stairs of the abandoned towers. It had taken weeks to prepare the grounds for the tourney, flowers were brought from the Reach to cover the dark and dank stone and charred earth.

Benjen raised a brow, he was still a boy; and a boy was curious to know if the whispered words he heard were true. "Are there really ghosts though?" A ridiculing smile crossed her lips as she shook her head, almost laughing. "I haven't seen any, but when the north wind blows there's an awful wailing in one of the towers." Everyone avoided the tower when the wailing could be heard. The sound was dreadful and many said it was the wailing spirit of Harren Hoare. "Half the castle is still ruined from when Balerion burned it," she explained, the history of her old home stayed with her by her readings and teachings from Septa Nyla.

"I don't miss it. I might miss the library from time to time, but I don't miss Harrenhal," she wondered if it would be proper to speak of what she thought of the castle and if was not then her brother would never dare tell. Benjen found it amusing that such a pretty little girl could have such a foul mouth, she was worse than Lyanna. "If that damned place finished burning to the ground I wouldn't shed a tear." The final crumbs of bread fell to the ground, dark wings flapped viciously for the scraps. When the flock of crows dispersed it revealed the small corpse of a red bird who had been too weak to compete. Something about the sight made her want to cry.

The two nearly lost their balance when Ned raced to the gate and wall, the stern expression he had begun wearing as of late was gone. Tears had gathered in his eyes as his two younger siblings descended from their precarious seats above the castle and land. "Mother is sick, she's very sick," the young pup had broken into a run at the words, Anya stood stock still with hot tears streaming down pale and cold cheeks.

Ned had never been the brother that would take Anya into his arms and comfort the girl, that was always what Benjen and Brandon did. Ned was more rigid and quiet, but the young wolf was broken. He was a man of nineteen now, no longer a boy. In a surge of fondness, Eddard Stark brought Anya into his chest. She returned the embrace without hesitation.

-

Brandon and Benjen stood at Lyarra Stark's bedside. The woman was frail. In a single year, she looked to have aged ten. Deep wrinkles were at the corners of her eyes, the deep brown of her hair had begun greying. She was thin as well, the sickness that had latched onto Lady Stark showed no signs of releasing her. Anya stood in the doorway, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Lyanna and Ned moved past the Whent girl to join their mother.

"Maester Walys does not think she will last through the night," Brandon cast a sorrow filled glance to the old white-haired man who stood in a shadowed corner, keeping silent. He was there to give her the milk of the poppy should she wake. There were no bruises on Lyarra's body, nor cuts and scrapes but she had hurt everywhere. Even her blood caused pain as it flowed through her veins.

Anya had stepped forward then. The words that came from her lips surprised her, "There has to be something, a different brew of tonic, another healer, a prayer." She was crying, she could taste the salt of her tears as she spoke _. There has to be something_ , Anya repeated the words over and over in her mind _, there has to be something_. The maester ushered the child from the room and tried to calm her tears. She had always loved Shella Whent more than Lord Walter, but the woman was a trained Lady and hardly spoke against her lord husband's treatment of her beloved daughter, her only child. Nine years had been spent with her true mother, those nine years could never compare to the two she had spent as Lyarra Stark's child.

The Starks were not as wealthy in coin as the Whent's. Winterfell was only a fraction of the size of Harrenhal. Thousands resided within the burnt walls, but here there were only a few hundred. Walter Whent had never loved her, only scorned and belittled her for her passions. Rickard Stark had given her Winterfell's library and an iron forged sword. Shella Whent dolled her daughter up in the finest clothing and gave her the best handmaidens a lady could ask for. Lyarra Stark had guided her as a mother should, she was tender and loving, stern and wise. It seemed the curse of Harrenhal had followed her to Winterfell.

Walys took the girl to the godswood and sat down with her beneath the heart tree. It was one of the only times she had come to this part of the castle grounds, having been raised by the Faith of the Seven she always felt out of place with the Old Gods surrounding her. The maester's linked chain of various metals clinked and clanked as he knelt before the old tree and said a silent prayer. All his focus shifted to Anya then, "Lyarra Stark has been sick for a very long time young one." The gentle wolf nodded, Lady Stark had been sicker than usual as of late, but she always recovered in only a couple days.

If the Old Gods would hear her prayers then she would condemn the Seven. The Father had never shown her justice in life, for ten years she suffered Lord Whent's curses. The Mother had never shown mercy to her or her brothers. The Crone had never guided her though anything, only left her to a miserable life in Harrenhal. The Warrior had given her the strength and courage to run away, but that could have been her own will and not a gift from the gods. The Smith had done nothing for her either. She had even prayed to the Stranger. Only the Maiden had blessed her with beauty, but that too could be a curse.

Grey eyes had become stone and steel, her gaze pierced through Maester Walys as he sat next to her. Anya drew in a long breath and looked down at the rippling of the silver water before her. "How do I pray to the Old Gods?" Her voice quavered upon asking the question, hesitance and apprehension gnawed at her for forsaking the Seven. "Just speak, child, lay your heart bare before the tree. They will listen and should it be within their power they will answer," the kindly old man smiled and retreated.

A knock in the night came, it woke her from a dream of knights, maidens, and dragons. Jory Cassel stood outside her door. The boy was older than her but younger than Benjen, loyal and honest. He had been crying, she could tell from his red and puffy eyes. Had it been any other night she would have yelled at him for interrupting her sleep and pushed him off with a playful shove, but even if words between them remained unspoken she knew his reason for waking her. Anya stepped forward, took Jory into her arms and wept for her mother until the dawn broke over the cold land.

A sad song was sung in the Great Hall the morn after Lyarra Stark's passing. Candles were burning in amounts so great the air of the hall warmed without a fire having to be lit in the hearth. Anya wore her best dress. The body of Lyarra Stark was laid upon a stone table, her face was completely at ease. Lord Rickard held his wife's hand and despite his renowned sternness, he grieved for his beloved the way any loving husband would, with tears and choked words of his devotion.

Bannermen arrived and parted during the day, sharing their grief and sympathies for the motherless children and newly widowed Lord of Winterfell. The Umbers came and went, as did the Karstarks, Glovers, and Ryswells.

Regardless of having been accepted into House Stark and seeing Lyarra as her mother for over a year, Anya Whent felt sorely out of place during the occasion. She lingered behind the trueborn Starks, never saying much, her eyes downcast. Jory was the only one to see her pain. As darkness descended on the land her body was moved to the crypts and though she would be expected to follow alongside Lyanna, Anya stood at the crypt's entrance, unable to take a single step further. Jory took her right hand and held it within his until the Starks returned from the tombs of their ancestors.

It was not until Anya readied herself for bed late that night did she realize it was her nameday. Now she was a girl of twelve, almost a woman grown. 


	4. Two

"Good, very good," Benjen praised his sister's form with the bow, even Lyanna looked impressed with how far Anya's skills had progressed in such a short amount of time. The young Whent girl relaxed her arm and looked at the coiled rope target, a red circle painted in the center but scattered around it was several arrows. "Show me your form again," Benjen crossed his arms and took a step back as Anya lifted the bow and pulled back on the string.

"Relax your arm a little," she did as her brother suggested, her hand becoming laxed on the wooden curve of the weapon, "Breathe in," the young pup almost laughed as he saw his sister's eyes narrow into slits, focused on the center of the target as she drew in a large gulp of air, "Release," the arrow lingered in the cold air of the North for only a second or two before hitting the target with a dull thud.

Lyanna had set her blunt sword down upon seeing where the arrow had landed. Anya looked on in shock, her arrow had hit in the red circle, exactly in the middle. Her smile was not like a Northern lady's, but that of a Southern lady. Within her smile was the sun bright enough to chase away the chill in the air. Benjen clasped her shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze, "Maybe in another year you'll be able to shoot better than me, sister." She laughed not believing that she could ever grow to be better than her brothers in anything except for sewing, which she loathed with a burning passion. Benjen took the bow from her hands and nudged her towards one of the towers. "Now run along, the Septa will be upset if you skip dancing lessons again."

Lord Rickard looked down at the sight of his children training with swords and bows alike. He had seen Anya Whent grow before his eyes and despite the sternness of his features, there was a soft spot in his heart for the girl, along with his trueborn sons and daughter. "There is a streak of wildness in the girl and her eyes are those of a true Northerner." Walys had counseled him in the first days after having allowed the girl to stay, those had been his words and they had been proven true. The girl thrived in the North, in her combatant skill and lessons. In such a short amount of time, she had become a Stark, if not by blood then by name.

"She's excelling with archery and steadily improving with the sword," Brandon stood beside his father, looking over the inner ward. They both watched as she and Lyanna scurried away to the Great Hall for their womanly lessons.

"She is," Lord Rickard agreed, the Whent girl had shown all the fierceness of a Stark yet now that she was coming of age he wondered how much longer the truth could be hidden. He had given her his name but that could not change her southern features, no Stark had been born with honey hair and been kissed by the sun. Yet in two short years, she was his daughter and soon, by marriage, he would have another. Catelyn Tully of Riverrun was to be married to his eldest son within two months. "Have you wrote Catelyn as of late?"

Brandon stiffened at the mention of his betrothed, "Yes, I sent a raven bearing a letter just the other day," the Tully girl was only twelve when the arrangement had been made and the thought of having the young Catelyn as his wife was the furthest thing he wished for. He had been told time and time again by his mother and father, it was a smart match and he would come to love her when she gave him sons and daughters. "Father, while on the subject of marriages, do you still wish for Lyanna to marry Robert?"

Lord Rickard appeared cross with Brandon's question and he spoke the same words he had told the wild wolf before in regards to Catelyn, "It is a smart match, Brandon. The realm will prosper from the joining of our houses." _But Lyanna will not be tamed so easily. Wolves do not dance with stags_.

-

Lord Rickard had urged his two girls to spend more time with the Septa and Old Nan for lessons, they were each approaching the age of womanhood and it would be expected of them to know a vast deal of things only to never speak of them with their lord husband. They had started with the houses, great and small, across Westeros, learning their lord and lady's name, sigil, and words.

Within a week, Anya could recite the history of Winterfell and the Wall. After a month of intense lessons, she could name nearly every house in Westeros from the Wall to Dorne, repeat their words and identify their sigils. For Lyanna it was tedious but Anya enjoyed these lessons, she was amongst books once again. She was curious to know if Septa Nyla would have taught her these things as well or if the old woman would only ever deal in needlework.

On days when their lessons ended at decent times the sisters would run to the courtyard and pick up arms. They made a game of what they had been taught. With swords carved from wood, the two would spar, each strike that was successful meant the one struck would have to name the sigil and words of a house. Their brothers would gather to watch, sometimes even Jory would trail along.

The Whent girl blocked Lyanna's strike with surprising ease. She twirled around to her sister's backside with the tip of her sword pressing into her back. "House Whent." Lyanna laughed at the simplicity of Anya's first named house but answered correctly, "Nine black bats on a golden field. _Fly by night_." The words had never sat right with Anya once Septa Nyla had explained what the common folk used the phrase for. A fly-by-night was someone who could not be trusted yet it was somehow fitting, especially for her father.

Lyanna swung her blunt sword at Anya's shoulder. The little Lady caught her arm mid-swing and pressed her own blunt sword into Lyanna's stomach. She was grinning despite the sweat beading down her forehead. "House Beesbury." Anya took a step back and once more Lyanna was coming at her with no reserve, huffing out the words with each movement. "Three yellow beehives with black stripes on a yellow field. _Beware our sting_." Even with her concentration the trueborn Stark could not react quickly enough to Anya's feints. She had to answer for three more houses while Anya had not been struck once.

Anya had never bested her in swordsmanship but now the eldest girl seemed but a shell of herself while sparring, Lyanna gritted her teeth in frustration. Hours that had been spent on dancing lessons while still at Harrenhal helped the Whent girl fight with grace. Each step she took seemed to belong in an elegant dance, the movements of her strikes and evasions flowed seamlessly like water. She had grown, both taller and stronger, since the last time the sisters had truly scuffled in such a manner. Lyanna was growing weary and resorted to brute strength, dodging one of Anya's precise thrusts the older girl knocked her sister's feet from under her. She lay on the ground unarmed and breathing heavily when Lyanna brought the tip of her wooden sword to set against the Whent girl's neck. "House Clegane."

The little Lady knocked the sword away from her throat and sat up to spit out the blood that had gathered in her mouth, "Three snarling dogs on a yellow field. _Sworn to Lannister_."

Sewing lessons came next, the Whent girl despised learning and Lyanna was just as disinterested. Every day they were to stitch and embroider for an hour and everyday Anya would come away with pricked fingers so tender that she could not even draw a bowstring back without cringing. Lyanna would mock the old hens behind their backs, Anya wished to laugh at her foolishness but she sat in place, hardly smiling. Sometimes she forgot that she was at Winterfell and not Harrenhal, yet Walter Whent's threats still came to haunt her. _Septa Nyla has told me you have been missing lessons, should she have to tell me you have missed another lesson you will go a day without meals or sweets_ , she could still hear his cold voice. She never missed another lesson.

The end of the first week of sewing could not come fast enough. Each girl presented their work to the Septa for approval. Anya had struggled to produce her house's sigil, the nine bats had uneven and lopsided wings, their bellies too large for such a small creature. Lyanna stitched a tree bare of leaves, though the Septa could not say where the trunk was as all the lines were crooked and slim.

"I pity the men that have wed you two," the Septa sighed as she looked over Lyanna and Anya's needlework. Their stitches were sloppily done, the thread knotted off wrong. Anya looked down at her work and tried to hide her disappointment. She tried her best despite not wanting to sew, but Lyanna hardly tried at all. Her disinterest in wifely lessons and activities was evident and as her marriage to Robert Baratheon drew closer she had only gotten worse. "Lyanna, work on yours for half an hour more. Anya, you're dismissed for the day. Your effort is admirable."

-

By chance Anya had left her chamber door open for the night and was awake, reading, when she saw a shadowed figure move through the hall in silence. Curious and suspicious, the Whent girl followed the hooded figure to the stables where she saw is was not a stranger, but her sister. She watched from the shadows as the fair lady saddled her courser, "Lyanna? Where are you going?" The time they had first met came rushing back to her, Anya had found her sneaking off then too.

"I cannot marry Robert Baratheon," the admission was so sudden that Anya gasped, the wedding was to be in less than three months and until this point she thought the two to be happy, yet it was only Robert who was pleased with the arrangement. Lyanna wrung her hands together and paced around the stables. Anya could see that her sister was trying to come to terms with her decision to leave. "He's always been a good friend to me and Ned especially, but I don't love him." The little Lady nodded and stepped forward, tightening one of the straps of leather on her sister's saddle.

Lyanna Stark looked at Anya with a type of sadness she had never seen before. In silence, the two prepared the white horse for her departure and packed the small pouches on the saddle with cured meats and hearty bread. They passed the East Gate and moved onward to where the Kingsroad lay ahead. "You must not tell a soul of where I am going, sister," the moonlight dispelled the torment Lyanna was in, tears gathered in her eyes but a smile came upon her face.

Anya crossed her arms, despite her wishing Lyanna to be happy she could not help but feel betrayed in the strangest of ways, "And where is that?" The Whent girl questioned, trying her best to keep the tears from her eyes and crack from her voice. A softness came over Lyanna's expression and gently she laid her hand on Anya's shoulder. Wherever she may have been going it was easy to see that the thought of arriving was enough to bring a rare smile back to her fair face. "South. Prince Rhaegar and I have been writing since we met at the tournament. He will meet me on the Kingsroad at the Crossroads Inn. We will run to the Reach."

The true-born Stark stepped forward and the two sisters were embracing, Anya pressed her face against her sister's shoulder. "I promise I won't tell anyone, Lyanna. I swear I won't by the old gods and the new," she felt the tears on her cheeks beginning to freeze, the thin material of her nightclothes no longer held warmth in the cold night air. Lyanna released her sister for a quick moment only to kiss her forehead.

"Keep our brothers out of trouble, sweet sister," the two embraced for a final time, Anya had not remembered a time after the Tourney when Lyanna was as exultant as she was now, many said that the final day of the tournament was the moment when all smiles died. 

The Whent girl watched from the East Gate of Winterfell as her beloved sister rode away on a white mare. Under the moonlight her soft purple dress was black and her hair shone like spilled oil. If Anya had known the events that would follow this night she may have begged and argued with her not to leave. It would be the last time she saw Lyanna Stark alive and in the coming weeks, both Brandon and Lord Rickard would be lost to her as well. 


	5. Three

The kingdom had been sent into turmoil by the alleged abduction of Lyanna by the Targaryen prince. Robert Baratheon was wroth with the absence of his betrothed, Brandon and Lord Rickard went south to King's Landing in hopes of finding Lyanna, an explanation, and the promise that Rhaegar would be disciplined by the kings. When Lord Rickard and Brandon rode off one spring morn, with a red dawn painting the sky, Anya felt sick. Her stomach churned with guilt and by the time she could no longer see the Stark banners, her breakfast had already been retched up several times over. Benjen and Ned both sent her to the maester but there was no tonic or potion the old man could muster that would cure her sickness.

It was in the troubling times that she gained the name _gentle wolf_. A ferocity and wildness flowed through her blood, it was plain to every set of eyes that looked her way, but there was a gentleness that no Stark had ever possessed. The gentle wolf felt undeserving of such a title, all she had done was nurse a raven back to health yet the common people saw it as a great kindness and act of mercy in such troubling times. Ned had taken up the position of Winterfell's Lord, the weight was heavy upon his shoulders and with his own cold type of love, he would not allow any of it to fall upon Anya or Benjen.

Ravens came and went but he shared no news of the happenings on the Kingsroad or even when they came to arrive safely in King's Landing. It took three weeks before Benjen began catching the ravens before their messages could be delivered and once read the scrolls of paper would be put back in place and birds sent to continue their flight. A spring breeze carried a raven to the castle, as was usual she and Benjen caged the bird and took its parchment. The scroll bore the Targaryen seal. Eagerly, she read the script. The young pup watched as his sister's face fell and tears began streaming down her face as she ran, now hesitant, he picked up the message and read it himself.

Word had reached Winterfell that the Mad King had killed both Lord Rickard and Brandon. Anya cried for a day, not wishing to leave her room. To her, their deaths were her fault, everything that was happening came back to her. She was to blame for the death of Brandon and Rickard Stark because she chose to honor her promise to Lyanna rather than risk hatred from her for exposing her ploy to run away. In truth, she did not even know if her sister still lived. She ignored the knocks at her door and continued on imagining a world of many 'what ifs.' _What if I had told father when I first realized she was leaving? What if I had ran back and told him as soon as she had left? What if when Robert was screaming about her abduction and the atrocities that could occur to her at the hands of a Targaryen I had told the truth? What if my father and brother were still alive?_

Anya cried until tears would no longer come until she was heaving with each breath and spittle dripped down her chin.

The next morn when she woke it was to a raucous of noise coming from the courtyard. Several hundred of the Stark bannermen had rallied after hearing the news that had come from King's Landing. Steel was being sharpened, armor polished. Anya fumbled with the ties of her tunic and breeches in her haste, after a moment's consideration, she picked up the sword that laid by a dusty wooden trunk and strapped the scabbard to her hip.

A cloak of deep blue stood out among the grey and brown leathers of the Stark men that had rallied. They looked at her with pity, she would have taken their sympathies but pity was not what the girl wanted. She wanted numerous things but knew well enough that they were not easily attainable. She found Ned overlooking the chaos, his face set in a grim trance of determination.

Anya must have run a dozen sentences through her head but when her mouth opened to speak the words that came out were a desperate plea, the way she should have pleaded for Lyanna to stay. "I don't want you to go, Ned!"

Eddard turned at his sister's outburst. He had not seen her since the raven had arrived, unsure of how to comfort her in these dark times. "I must go, Anya. You are to stay here with Benjen," he smiled though it was unconvincing since Lyarra's passing the two had grown closer, all the Stark children had grown closer. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell." The little Lady pushed him away, hard. "But I'm _not_ a Stark!" It was a bitter reminder of the truth, she was not a wolf but a bat.

"You are!" the quiet wolf shouted at the gentle wolf. "You may not be a Stark by blood but you are in name. You are Anya Stark, my sister," his voice softened considerably; a pang of regret for the outburst flashed across his grey eyes. Anya only looked at him again when he laid his hand on her neck as Lord Rickard had done the first time he addressed her at a feast as she had been too nervous to even speak with the other children.

She shook her head fervently but it was not in disagreement with what Ned had just said, it was her own stubbornness, "I can fight, though!" the declaration was barely managed through the renewed tears, the wound in her heart was still tender and bleeding. "We can avenge father and Brandon together!"

Ned frowned, "I do not doubt your heart and abilities but you must stay here." There were many times she wished she were a boy while living in Harrenhal, she believed it would make life easier. Then it would not be obscure if she fancied swordplay more than lessons, and pants more than dresses. She wished to be a boy now too, then maybe she could fight.

"Catelyn will be arriving soon after I leave Riverrun. You are to be her sister now," Ned's face gave nothing away as to what he was thinking about Catelyn, she knew he would marry her out of honor and duty. He knew Anya would understand Catelyn's plight, a southern born lady coming north. "Do I have your word that you stay here in Winterfell?"

For the moment, she swallowed her pride and stubbornness and accepted that she would not see battle. "Yes," the Whent girl nodded feebly, "I will stay here with Benjen." And so in two days' time, Lord Eddard Stark set off to Riverrun and to war. Anya watched the company leave standing next to Benjen, unsure if she would see her brother again and praying that the gods have mercy and let him return to the North.

-

The ravens stopped coming to deliver news from the battlefront and everyday Anya looked on the horizon waiting to see the Stark banners flying from wheelhouses and warhorses. In the time since Catelyn's arrival and the beginning of what would be known as Robert's Rebellion, she had already birthed a son. He was healthy and red in the face with deep auburn curls. Anya adored him. She would coddle the babe and make faces just to hear the innocence of young Robb's laugh. Catelyn would scold her for spoiling him, Benjen only laughed, and little Robb smiled a toothless grin.

Anya had made a point to bring Catelyn to the godswood often, from experience she knew it to be the most intimidating about Winterfell, especially for one that still prayed to the Seven. Sometimes even she still felt a stranger in the primordial forest surrounded by trees that had been untouched for thousands of years. Catelyn could sense something innately wild about the patch of wood that covered roughly three acres, she swore on some days she felt the eyes of the Old Gods upon her.

Harrenhal had a godswood over five times larger than Winterfell's, sentinel trees overwhelmed the area but scarcely did anyone frequent the wood to pray. The heart tree had a terrible face that warded many away from seeking penance. Anya wondered if Riverrun had a heart tree and if so what its face looked like. On the way back to the Great Hall, Catelyn Tully took one of Anya's hands into her own, "You have been very gracious and supportive since my arrival and I must thank you for that, Anya." She smiled back at the misplaced woman, her dress of blue and red did not fall in with the colors of Winterfell. Anya's own dress was a drab colored grey, the only color came from her honeyed hair, a golden sight amongst the greys and blues of the North.

Another month had come to pass. The leaves of the oak and ironwood trees had begun shifting from green to shades of gold and red, come winter the layer of detritus of the forest floor would be thicker. A slight sickness of sorts had latched onto Anya, she was fevered and sneezed with what felt like every breath, she found herself unable to rid the chill from her bones. Benjen came often after his duties had been done, in the evenings, he would take his supper within her chambers and talk her ear off about the people he had to appease. On the fifth day of her illness, Maester Walys and Luwin assured her the worse had passed, feeling stronger she set out to the library but Catelyn intercepted her and she traded her books for gossip.

Anya listened to Lady Catelyn speak of what news had been heard of Riverrun and sent to Winterfell but it had little to do with the Rebellion, her sister, Lysa, had mentioned a marriage between Edmure and some lesser Lord's daughter and a great deal of many other things that could not wholly interest the Whent girl, but she listened regardless. After hesitating, Catelyn had asked her about Brandon and then of Ned. She answered her questions with all the truth she knew. "Did you already love Brandon?" Anya knew well enough that Eddard Stark was not the easiest person to come to love, while it only took a few seconds for Brandon to have garnered several ladies' love and their maidenhood. Though brothers they were opposites, and Benjen was a strange combination of the two of them.

Catelyn sighed and Anya sneezed into a stained handkerchief. Even though Ned's lady wife had high cheekbones and fair skin, somehow her entire face seemed to be frowning, "Part of me did. He was so handsome and passionate; any lady would have dreamed of marrying someone like him." The little Lady tried to stop her heart from falling at the admission, she wanted Ned to be happy in marriage and the thought of seeing Catelyn miserable for years to come was more than she could bear.

"Do you think you can grow to love Ned?" Anya feared that her question had overstepped a boundary within their relationship as the color had drained from Catelyn's face. "I do not know. Is he always so –so cold?"

Anya managed a smile, "That is his nature. You can never tell what he's thinking just by looking at his face. He keeps a lot to himself, but should you have the patience you'll find he _is_ warm-blooded and loving in his own way."

-

On the day the bannermen could be seen in the distance with the direwolf sigil at the lead, Anya left in such haste that she did even bother to saddle her mare. She rode hard and met them on the Kingsroad. Her brother rode at the front of the Northern men, “Ned?” War had caused his face to become sterner, all traces of the boy within him was gone. His hair had grown longer and there still remained the remnants of a bandage on his shoulder that she could see from under a brown leather surcoat. He met his sister’s smile with a worn one of his own.

Lord Eddard Stark slipped from his saddle and Anya from the back of her mare, the two stood still for a moment before she lurched forward and embraced her brother. When she stepped back and surveyed those who had returned a doleful expression stemming from heartache washed over her face. Lyanna was not with him, she had not returned. “Lyanna?” She pushed past her brother and stumbled through the bannermen and soldiers calling out her sister's name when a young bairn’s cry struck her dumb and stalled the tears before they could ever come.

Anya turned back to see a bundle of grey and red fur within Ned’s arms. The child would have been nearing three months in age, nearly the same as Robb. Black curls toppled out of the swaddling and piercing grey eyes moved from Ned to her. She took the baby into her arms and made a face that calmed his cries to silent hiccups. A swell of motherly love bloomed in her chest when the boy smiled and babbled with a newfound happiness. “Jon. His name is Jon Snow.” The name of a bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some of you lovely readers are probably getting impatient about having to wait so long to see Sandor, but I want to develop Anya and her relationships with the Starks as much as I can before she gets thrown into the events of both the books and show.


	6. Four

Celebratory feasts went on well into the night. They drank to Lord Eddard and the new king, Robert Baratheon. Catelyn and little Robb had already retired for the evening and Anya was following behind them for the sake of Jon but in the courtyard she saw a face that she hadn't realized had been missed so much until then. "Jory!" The war roughened boy turned with a grin, his lessons were not forgotten, however, and like a proper knight, he bowed before the Lady. "I am glad to find you well." She wanted to embrace him but it did not seem fitting nor appropriate to do so.

"Thank you, my lady." Jory Cassel had turned as red as the wine Anya had drunk with her meal. In a panicky haste, he left Anya standing in the courtyard, seemingly alone until Benjen pushed himself off a wooden post. "He fancies you." It was no secret amongst the people of Winterfell. He and Anya were the same age and often they would spar. During their first scuffle, she had knocked him on his arse so quickly Brandon asked what happened as he had blinked. Benjen had told her right afterwards that he had seen hearts grow in Jory's eyes.

"Hush," she chided, her cheeks had turned pink at his teasing. There was a fondness in her heart for Jory but it was rooted in friendship. Benjen offered his sister the crook of his arm. Somehow the two had wandered into the godswood, pass the glass garden and to the weirwood tree with its long and stern face.

"Anya, after my next nameday I have chosen to take the black," he knew his sister was not one for excess formalities or conversations that dragged on so he was blunt, perhaps _too_ blunt. Anya's smile fell, her eyes turned from snow to ice, and the unyielding expression she wore could have rivaled Ned's.

"No," there was no wavering in her unbelieving response to the news. Anya pushed Benjen back. "Yes," he reprimanded, "Ned is Lord of Winterfell and Robb will be his heir. I cannot stay here and do nothing for the rest of my life."

The little Lady lifted her chin with utter surety in her rushed decision, "I'm coming with you then." Benjen would have laughed at the prospect if he hadn't known of her resolve, "Don't be foolish, you know women are not allowed." She near hated being a woman again, there were too many limitations on what she could do in society based solely on the worthless slit between her thighs.

"Why do you have to leave me? Everyone either dies or leaves me," her throat had tightened, she knew it was the truth. Lyanna, Brandon, and Lord Rickard had left her and all three had perished. Ned had left and even though he returned he was not the same. Lord Walter Whent would send away her handmaidens if she became too close with them, the butcher's son she had often played with had been killed because her lord father had seen the boy thump her arm with a wooden sword after she had knocked him on the head. Anya Whent felt she carried the alleged curse of Harrenhal with her. If that was indeed the case, then she hated to know what would become of Catelyn and Robb.

The young pup wiped away Anya's tears with his sleeve, she hadn't even realized she was crying. "I'll be a Ranger, I'll have to return to Winterfell at times. It won't be goodbye."

She sniffled and somehow recalled the stories of Old Nan, "But the White Walkers and wildlings-" Benjen cut her off with a faint chuckle, "Are dead, and any well-trained swordsman can kill a wildling, you know that."

-

Catelyn hated the bastard boy, she didn't hate him from the core of her heart per se, but she hated what his life represented, the walking proof of her lord husband's infidelity. She found herself unable to even look at the child as it was like looking at Ned. Jon Snow, even as a babe, was the reflection of a Stark but Robb, her dear boy and firstborn, looked more like her than she would have preferred. Anya, however, loved Jon Snow as if he were her own child.

There were times when Anya would take Jon into the godswood and sit next to the heart tree, handing him leaves and twigs to busy himself while new toys could be made. She carried him on her hip around the castle and on horseback for her rides into the Wolfswood. Catelyn would give her a contemptuous glance when she saw the two, it grew tenfold when Ned was with his bastard son.

Robb was approaching his first nameday celebration and would no longer take a wet nurse and regardless of how much Anya reasoned with Catelyn that Jon was younger and still needed a mother's milk the young mother was sent away. Ned had sent a messenger to the nearest towns and villages with news that there was such a position open but most of the women were too old to bear children or too sickly to travel to Winterfell. Maester Luwin has suggested a method that he had known to be used by some noble families south of the Stormlands, it was absurd but she agreed. A tea of goat's rue and nettle was brewed fresh every morning and evening, six cups a day for a week, by the fifth day her breasts were sore and heavy with milk. When Catelyn had learned of what she had done, Anya feared that she would begin to hate her as well.

The child's wailing woke half the castle one night, Anya had clambered out of bed and stumbled down the hall. Benjen was already there, bouncing a crying Jon on his knee. She paused in the doorway for only a moment. "Seven hells, boy, I can't hold you for hours on end. I have to sleep too you know," the young pup sighed. Anya Whent scooped Jon up from Benjen's knee and rocked him, humming a lullaby she remembered the Septa at Harrenhal singing to babies, but the hum turned into a song.

" _The Father's face is stern and strong,_  
 _he sits and judges right from wrong._  
 _He weighs our lives, the short and long,_  
 _and loves the little children_..."

Jon had begun to settle, his cries softened and with large grey-black eyes he stared up at his aunt with an open mouth. She looked at Benjen with uncertainty but he nodded and she continued singing softly.

"... _The Maiden dances through the sky,_  
 _she lives in every lover's sigh._  
 _Her smiles teach the birds to fly,_  
 _and gives dreams to little children_..."

She laid the babe down in his cradle and he made not a single sound as she looked down on him with a smile.

"... _So close your eyes, you shall not fall,_  
 _they see you, little children..._ "

Jon's eyes slipped shut under the heavy weight of sleep.

" _...Just close your eyes, you shall not fall,_  
 _they see you, little children_."

-

When Sansa had been born, castle's bells rang out from dusk till dawn. Anya saw the young girl in the birthing room and was one of the first to hold the child, pink and squabbling with a tuft of auburn hair _. Kissed by fire_ as the wildlings said. She wrote to Benjen that night, a letter informing him of his niece's birth and of the state of Winterfell. The raven she had named Crookbeak for the slight offset of his bottom beak cawed from within his cage _, wall wall wall_. Anya gave the bird a handful of grain and tied the scroll of parchment to a bony leg. Crookbeak settled on her shoulder, somehow the raven knew to keep his talons from breaking her skin through thin garments. With an open window and a nod, the raven flew north.

Robb was nearing five, as was Jon, and Sansa had recently turned two when Maester Luwin confirmed that Catelyn was with child once more. On the even, Ned had told Anya of the news she tried to be happy for the couple but sadness had overcome her. "What is it?" He had asked in a manner that made her believe it was Lord Rickard speaking to her and not her brother.

"It's Jon, he's fevered and the maester is calling it the pox. He said if the boy survives the night then he will live. Won't you come see him?" Ned followed his sister to the boy's chamber, purposefully smaller than even Sansa's room as a babe. Sweat glistened on Jon's brow, his face was white as the snow on the ground asides for the small red spots that had risen on his skin. For now, he slept, but there were times when he'd whimper and cough, barely able to breathe. Together, she and Ned went to the godswood to pray before the long-faced weirwood tree. Her heart was laid bare, she spoke in silence of every sorrow that clung to her and begged the Old Gods to let the boy live. She even prayed for Lyanna, Brandon, and Rickard. She prayed that somehow her part in their deaths could be forgiven.

Lord Eddard helped her to stand when snow had coated her cloaked shoulders and head. Anya cried into her brother's shoulder, he held her close with a fierce love. The Whent girl pushed open the door to Jon's room but her gaze was drawn away from the boy and to the woman who sat bed side weaving a prayer wheel. It was said that only mothers should make them and though Anya had nursed the boy herself it still did not make her mother in the eyes of the Seven. Lady Stark was deep in thought that Anya's entrance went unnoticed until she spoke, "Catelyn, I did not think to see you here."

The north had begun to take its toll on her, even the glow of pregnancy could not give back the full color that had once been in her face. "I had not thought to be here until Walys told me of his sickness." Anya pulled another chair up to the bed, Jon was wheezing and when she laid a hand to his forehead it felt like his skin was on fire. The cool rags she could run over his head, arms, and feet had done nothing to lower his fever. "He looks so much like Ned," the admission came from Catelyn in a strained tone.

Anya agreed, "He does." Whoever Jon's mother had been had left little of herself in the boy, even as a bastard, he had all the features of a Stark. They spoke little more for the rest of that long night, but come morn Jon was living and Anya near cried into his bedsheets when he softly asked for a honey cake. Catelyn was crying for an entirely different reason.

Another girl and two more boys would come into the world. As Arya grew the resemblance to her father became more apparent, Bran and Rickon, however, had more Tully in them than Stark.

Climbing castle walls was something she would have thoroughly enjoyed as a child, but now with larger feet and hands it was harder to find footholds and crevices where she could find a secure grip. Though the days of her youth were in the past, Anya climbed from the highest window of the Broken Tower and to the top where Robb and Jon stood shouting at the top of their lungs. "What are you two doing?"

"Practicing!" Jon retorted as if it were obvious.

Anya laughed at his enthusiasm, "Screaming at nothing but the air is practicing?" There was a certain amount of doubt in her voice that spurred a blue-eyed Robb to turn. "Father says that in battle a captain's lungs are as important as his sword arm. Men cannot follow orders if their captain cannot be heard." Though Robb was only seven he already head the surety and conviction of a Lord.

"Well go on, let's hear how the two wolves howl." She sat on a heap of stone that had not fallen yet and listened as the two shouted the names of hailed knights and heroes from the stories told before bedtime. It was Robb's turn next, the boy puffed out his chest and stamped his foot. "I'm Ser Ryam Redwyne!" Anya had no doubt he was only thinking of the knight's accomplishments at tourneys and in battles, he was a great knight and a horrible politician.

The turn fell to Ned Stark's bastard and of the two he was the first to proclaim it: "I'm Lord of Winterfell!" Jon's cry had been louder, crows fluttered from their perches at the echoing cry and while a smile had come to his rosy cheeks in regards to his success, Robb's brows furrowed. "You can't be Lord of Winterfell, you're bastard-born. My lady mother says you can't ever be the Lord of Winterfell." Jon turned to look at his aunt with anguish but Robb was not angry at his half-brother for the declaration. Anya's frown only deepened when she realized Catelyn had been speaking ill of a motherless child.

"I think the two of you have practiced enough for today. Robb, your mother was looking for you." She saw them safely through the window and down the crumbling stairs of the tower. Robb went dashing off to find his lady mother but Jon sulked at his aunt's side having nowhere better to be. They went to the godswood and sat beneath the weirwood tree.

The bastard boy pulled his knees to his chest and looked at down at his reflection in the small pool of water. "He's right isn't he?" With the way he had asked the question, Anya knew that Jon Snow already knew the answer.

"Yes, you will not be Lord of Winterfell. There are other ways to do something worthwhile. Your Uncle Benjen took the black. He's a ranger now, that's one of the highest ranks there is behind the Lord Commander." Benjen hadn't visited Winterfell in two long years but he wrote her and Ned short letters detailing his safe return from an excursion beyond the wall or that there had been a deserter seen near Winterfell. "Maybe one day I'll take you to see the Wall and Castle Black," she had never seen Jon smile as he was then. The boy of seven flung himself into his aunt's arms and when she held him tightly, as she did now, he knew a mother's embrace. Anya tipped the boy's chin up and smiled, "Arya wants to play dragons and maidens. I think you'll make a fine dragon."

Anya's presence in the family was constant, on Robb and Jon's first hunt in the Wolfswood she was there with a spear and bow. When Ned said it was time for them to learn to wield a sword she and Ser Rodrik were the only two with enough patience to teach the children. Oft times when both Ned and Catelyn were consumed with duties it was with Anya that Sansa had her tea parties with. She played dolls with a young Arya and would sing them all to sleep on nights when wicked dreams lurked about.

She and Maester Luwin helped them all to learn how to write and read, and when lessons began Anya lingered about to ask them what a certain House's sigil was or what the House words were. She had taught Robb and Jon the game she and Lyanna used to play. When a boy of ten named Theon Greyjoy joined them Anya took him under her wing as well. The gods had blessed her with seven children that she could watch grow into good, strong men and women of the North.


	7. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will start a little before A Game of Thrones begins and catch up to the start as Robert arrives at Winterfell.

Two days ago word had been received in the form of a scroll attached to a raven's foot that the First Ranger of the Night's Watch was riding south, towards Winterfell. It had come only hours after the news that Robert Baratheon was in the North, making his way to Winterfell. The first person Ned had told upon hearing of his brother's impending arrival was Anya. She had taken a keen liking to the young pup before anything ill had befallen the Starks. After Lord Rickard and Brandon's death the two grew even closer. Coming over the hill on the Kingsroad, Anya could see a lone rider clad in all black and heavy fur, riding fast and hard from the tower she looked out of and upon a closer inspection she spotted three more black brothers that had fallen behind.

Running in a dress was never an easy feat to accomplish, especially when weighed down with the wool and furs of Northern gowns, but run she did. The Ranger had only just passed his horse off to a stable hand when a sweet voice cried his name, "Benjen!" It had been the only warning before she threw herself into his arms. Benjen's cloak engulfed her when he returned the embrace. He missed his sweet sister and every time he was given a chance to return to Winterfell she was always smiling, a fair face with a warrior's spirit. "My dearest Anya," his icy lips brushed over her forehead, a feather's touch.

Anya stood back, appraising her brother's appearance, black had always been the color that suited him best and now he wore it from head to toe, a true ranger of the Night's Watch. "How I've missed you," at the crack in her voice Benjen pulled her back into his arms, the summer scent of lilacs lingered in her honey curls, it tickled his nose and served as a cruel reminder of the harshness of the Wall and duty.

"Are you ready for the royal visitors?" The young pup fiddled for a brief second with the ties of her cloak, a habit from when they were younger. Anya pursed her lips, not pleased with the reminder that within the coming days the King and Queen would be in Winterfell.

"No, this place has been driving me mad for the past week, I'd almost prefer to join you on that damned Wall," they each shared a quiet laugh, she had jokingly mentioned many times before that she would join him on the Wall, but the moment of jovial reunion came to an end when Anya looked at her brother with a serious expression. "There's only one reason Robert would drag himself and his Lannister hoard up North," she was never particularly fond of the fat king. Thus far in his reign, he had been able to keep the peace but that did not mean that ploys and plots were not being devised by others.

"We'll speak later, I need to see Ned," Benjen placed a kiss upon his sister's cheek and left in search of the Lord of Winterfell. Anya spun on heel and walked back towards the Great Hall, she was to help Catelyn make final arrangements for King Robert's visit, even if the two loathed the reasons behind his visit. She stopped for only a moment to see Bran practicing the bow with Jon's patient tutelage, Robb and Theon were swinging blunted blades about but the sound of steel on steel carried through the courtyard.

Robb deflected a near certain hit from Theon and drove his sword into the ground, wiping the sweat from his brow. Anya could see that even with the years of practice there was still room for improvement, "Care to have a round or two with us?" Her fingers itched to have a sword in hand, if only to knock the boastful smile off of Robb's face, Jon had seen his aunt's expression and chuckled quietly to himself. They had never managed to best her. "Not today, boys, I cannot neglect my duties for forever with the royal family but a day or two away."

Catelyn was in a frenzy as the Great Hall was being prepared for the coming feasts and merriments, the largest of the chandeliers had been lowered and the candles were being diligently replaced while other were being carried off into the room that was to house Tyrion Lannister. Casks of ale and wine were being brought up from the cellars and meat prepared for the roasting spit. Anya plucked an overripe apple from the table and took a bite from the soft red flesh, Catelyn lifted the skirts of her dress and scurried across the hall, "Anya, will you see to it that Arya has finished her dress before the day's end?"

The Whent girl lowered her head, "Of course." She had never liked sewing, most of her new clothes were stitched and patched by others. She was worthless with a needle in hand, yet she had learned the art all the same. Anya first went to Arya's chambers and as expected, they were empty with a half-finished dress lying across the furs of her bed. Anya stopped when a pebble from the Broken Tower landed on her foot, Bran hid his face against the wall thinking it was his lady mother at first. "Don't let your mother see you doing that, Brandon Stark," she chided the child as if he were her own.

Knowing the youngest Stark girl well, she left to the edge of the godswood and waited until the girl dropped down from branch to branch to the ground. The direwolf pup Arya had been gifted, nudged her hand until she rubbed the fur between her ears.

"Arya!" Anya scolded, though secretly she had promoted such endeavors as she saw a reflection of herself and Lyanna in the wild girl, "You're supposed to be sewing." Arya looked at the ground shamefully, a ruddy color coming to her young cheeks, the Whent girl smiled ruefully and tipped the young Stark girl's chin up.

"I don't want to sew," she almost pouted and Nymeria whined. Anya shook her head, it was meant to be scolding but when she was the girl's age the same words had left her lips as well, as had other excuses. "Nor did I when I was your age, but I learned how regardless and still managed to find time to get into fights," Anya grinned and scratched Nymeria's head, of all the direwolf pups that had been found Nymeria and Grey Wind had taken a keen liking to Anya, perhaps that could be accredited to when she would give the two of them bones and pieces of meat under the table.

Arya had always held her aunt in high esteem, she had a streak of wildness yet at the appropriate times, she was a lady. The dual sidedness was something the young girl envied. "Come, if we both work on the dress then it will be done before dinner and your lady mother will never know that you had been frolicking around the place with that wolf of yours."

-

The Starks had gathered in the courtyard while the first of the royal party arrived. Prince Joffrey was the first to ride in with a Kingsgaurd member to his right and man donning a hound's head helm on his left, clad in soot grey boiled leather on a black horse. The man pushed the mouth of his helmet open revealing the scarred half his face, for half a moment Anya had forgotten that it was rude to stare. As she turned her eyes back on those still arriving, the Hound set his eyes upon her with an enquiring glance.

The wheelhouse housing the queen and her younger children came next and from behind it, King Robert Baratheon rode forth. All of Winterfell bent the knee and did not rise until the king bid them do so. Having not seen Robert Baratheon since Greyjoy's Rebellion, Anya almost did not recognize the fat man. He had to have put on at least eight stone and now he wore a beard to cover the rolls of his neck that created multiple chins. He and Ned embraced as reunited brothers after a mo of raillery.

Anya stood next to Rickon with Jon and Theon flanking either side behind her. "Your grace," she curtsied when Robert approached her. With a genial smile that caused his cheeks to grow fatter, the king reached forward and took the Whent girl's hand for a short second. "Where have you kept her locked up all this time, Ned? She's still a pretty one," Anya shifted on her feet uncomfortably and let out a quiet sigh when the king took his attention elsewhere, however, the queen was not so eager as to relieve the Whent girl of her scrutinizing gaze.

Introductions and formalities passed with a suffocating ease. Robert and Ned had gone to the crypts, the king wished to pay his respects to Lyanna Stark. The Lannister Queen had shown no more interest in Anya after the pleads with her husband had been ignored so the Whent girl lowered her head and fell back into the gathered gaggle to find Benjen.

Ned had returned from the crypts and prepared himself for the first of many feasts that would occur throughout the duration of the king's stay to find Anya walking with Benjen and Jory, exchanging banter at the chagrin of those who arrived with the royal party. She had even been bold enough to take a jeer at the expense of the crowned prince before her eldest living brother interrupted.

"Smile, eat, drink, at least try to enjoy yourself, sister," was what Lord Eddard Stark told her. Like a proper lady, she listened. Her dress was plain even in comparison to the queen's ladies in waiting. The delaine material was the color of slate, there was no embroideries or decoration on the dress and hardly any structure to it. In King's Landing she would have looked a peasant, but in Winterfell, she belonged. There was no room for her at the head table so she found Benjen and sat next to him on the edge of the Great Hall. Robert would have already drunk a barrel of wine if her estimations were correct, he was certainly besotted and with a serving wench on his lap already. The fifth of seven courses hadn't even been served yet.

The ranger of the Night's Watch on her right was, like her, out of place in the festivities. The brother and sister could carry on their conversations but it would never match the boisterous tales of war that the king spewed or the poor jokes he told that when people laughed it was to avoid a king's wrath. Disinterested in the occasion, the Whent girl glanced around at those in attendance. Some she knew, others were strangers. She had spotted Ser Jaime Lannister lurking near the outskirts of the hall and the man who had worn the hound's head helm standing resolutely against a stone pillar.

Of the three black brothers who had come to Winterfell, one of them watched where Anya's gaze lingered the most. Eddison Tollett leaned forward on the table, "Sandor Clegane." Her brows furrowed. "You keep coming back to him. Ugly thing isn't he?"

"Not ugly, intriguing," the Whent girl corrected while lifting a pewter tankard of mulled wine to her lips. It was true, though, Sandor Clegane was far from what a woman would consider desirable. Half his face was pocked with red craters that still looked to be oozing though the burn was now scarred and had been for some time. His dark hair, black or brown in the dim light she could not tell, was carefully brushed over the right side of his face but even that could not hide the disfigurement. Had he not been scarred Anya determined that he would have been average looking at best, but he seemed to blend into Winterfell better than most of those who had traveled from King's Landing.

Anya could only stand the Great Hall for a mere ninety minutes before she ventured to the kitchen and prepared a small meal alongside the workers to pair with a larger one. No one except Benjen and his black brothers had even noticed her absence. She found Jon repeatedly striking a straw model target with a blunted sword. He slashed at the figure until the head had fallen off the wooden dowel that supported it and then he hacked at the torso a few times for good measure. "I think he's dead now, Jon," the little Lady laughed and half flustered Jon turned. "What are you doing out here, Aunt Anya?" She pushed a salver into his hands and pushed him in the direction of a raised platform she had once visited often to read.

"Eating with my nephew. Is that a crime now?" The two took to an old scaffold that had several burning braziers that provided warmth and light in the dark night. Jon did not have to say why he was not in attendance at the feast, Anya already knew the reason. Catelyn believed that having a baseborn son feasting while in the royal family's presence could be taken as an insult so he was made to avoid the Great Hall while the smells and sounds filled the air. If she listened closely enough she could still hear the roaring laughter of the fat king through stone and wood. Anya and Jon never had to speak much in each other's company to be content and tonight was no different. The two shared a bond in such a way that words said nothing and silence could tell everything.

While the night was still young, Anya grew weary of the royal visitors and the attention they required. She retreated to the single place she was bound to have solitude, the library. Her solace faded when she saw the candles that had been lit around the room and the small man who sat perched in her favorite reading chair. The dwarf looked up at her with mismatched eyes and a crooked smile that reminded her of Crookbeak's. "Lord Tyrion," she greeted him with a pleasant smile that was forced.

"Lady Anya," came his similarly as false courtesy. The Whent girl clasped her hands in the folds of her skirts and glided to the nearest shelf, it held a line of medical tomes on herbs and methodologies, boring reads but she picked up one of the leather-bound books nonetheless.

"I had not expected to find you here at this hour." In honest, after hearing the rumors surrounding the Imp, she half figured he would be in Winter's Town with a whore or two. Anya skimmed over the next set of shelves, keeping a good deal of distance between herself and the Lannister.

"I'm afraid my appetite was lost after the first course though my hunger for knowledge is insatiable." The Whent girl decided then that if she must have the company of a Lannister, Tyrion would be her choice. At least he was bookish and blunt, whereas Cersei and Jaime were not so refined in their leisure pursuits. "Why is there a book on Harrenhal's history here in Winterfell? Seems rather odd," the dwarf thumbed through her salvaged book with near disinterest whilst Anya's cheeks grew red and heated at the observation. She had read the book from cover to cover enough to know most of the words.

"I do not know, my lord. It was here when I was a child. A tiresome read I must admit." Saying those words was enough to cause her a physical pain, it was once her favorite book and still held a special place in her heart. With three books tucked under her arm, Anya turned to face the little lord again. "I bid you a good rest, Lord Tyrion," she repeated the words Septa Nyla had taught her like a pretty little mockingbird.

"And you, Lady Anya." He called out to the darkness as she descended the spiral staircase.


	8. Six

"I wish you wouldn't go out today," Lord Eddard Stark wore a stern look as he spoke to his sister, sometimes he forgot she was not a young child. Anya knotted the fur trimmed cloak under her chin and slipped on her riding gloves. The royal party had arrived the day prior after a month on the Kingsroad, the formalities had been suffocating and the first of many feasts had been terrible in the little Lady's eyes as she sat next to Catelyn and the Queen the previous night. "Benjen and I are both going on a hunt, we'll be back in time to stuff our bellies at the feast and I may even be polite to Robert by then if we manage to kill something," she laughed, a good hunt always served as a welcomed distraction and calmed her restless soul.

Ned pushed her off in the direction of the stables, "Off with you then," he envied her in the moment. Anya laughed and carried on her way. Jory helped her saddle Shadow, the beast of a horse whinnied and neighed until the man presented him with a sugar cube. She smiled at the nephew of Ser Rodrik Cassel and swung herself up onto the horse's back. He had turned red and found himself looking at the ground instead of her. By the time the captain of Ned Stark's household guard looked up she had ridden away to join Benjen.

They raced to the Wolfswood, neck and neck until the Ranger reared back on the reins of his horse, allowing his sister the victory as he always had. Her laugh was music, a sweet sound cutting through the silence of the wood. The speckled destrier she rode huffed with the exertion as did Benjen's cinnamon mare. Leaves and twigs snapped under the weight of the horses' hooves. The underbrush was sparse, as were the leaves of the canopy. A grey sky loomed overhead, the clouds low and heavy with rain or snow. "What plagues your thoughts?"

Anya looked at Benjen and scoffed, "Must you ask?" The young pup laughed softly and nudged his sister's leg with his own. "If I cut my hair and bind my chest do you think I could go with you and take the black?" Between a serious expression and a level voice that dispelled no signs of joshing, Benjen laughed, long and loud, blackbirds fled from their branches above at the sound. He had expected that she would have forgotten about joining the Night's Watch by now, it had been years since she had last brought up the absurd idea.

"You do not belong there, sweet sister," she frowned but Benjen was adamant, "One of these days a lord is going to come and sweep you away to his castle." He didn't sound convinced of the truth of his statement, his sister was nine and twenty, past the prime age for marriage.

She laughed, though it sounded more like a snort. "I doubt that men do not want a wife that speaks out of place and you know I can't keep my mouth shut." That was half the reason she was still unwed. Her skills with weapons most often surpassed interested suitors and her knowledge of political affairs unnerved them. Previous suitors had ran back with their lord fathers and castles after hearing her speak what was deemed out of term. Anya would watch them leave with Ned laughing at her side.

They each slid off their mounts and secured the reins to young oak trees. Benjen walked at Anya's side with his bow half-drawn, "Then I suppose you'll have to find one that is a brash as you are." She scoffed and nocked an arrow with turkey feather fletching. "Look at the size of that one," a red stag was grazing in a small clearing between the trees where grass had a foothold among the years of built up leaves and twigs.

The Whent girl had knelt and drawn her bowstring back, "The heart?" she queried in a voice softer than a lover's whisper. Benjen nodded, "Aye, the heart," their bows creaked in the cold but the sound was not enough to startle the deer. She was crouched by a fallen tree, arrow nocked. Benjen nodded and began a soft count to three. Simultaneously they released the arrows. The soft whistle had alerted the deer but when it had lifted its head to look around two arrows had pierced the heart and the creature lie on the forest floor unmoving. It took all their strength to heave the stag onto the wain one to the smallfolk had brought upon hearing the horn of a hunter sound in the Wolfswood.

Upon the given request that Benjen traveled ahead and deliver the stag they had caught, Anya turned to the godswood. When she reached the heart tree, she knelt, praying that the old gods be good and protect her family from the plans that had been created by Robert Baratheon. The day had been windless and now a swift north wind blew, rustling the scarlet leaves of the trees, she took it as a sign that the gods had heard her prayer. The godswood was the only place in Winterfell that was peaceful at the moment and for that, she lingered by the silver pond for what seemed like hours but was only a few short minutes.

Anya had just led her black destrier, Shadow, into the stables. A young boy had taken the reins from her but another horse had caught her attention. The large black warhorse stamped his hoof into the straw covered ground as she walked by, it was undoubtedly one of those the royal family had brought. "Aren't you a magnificent beast?" With a mane as dark as an oil slick and a coat to match it she looked over the horse with an appreciative gaze before reaching forward and patting the side of his neck, but before she could pull her hand back the beast bared his teeth and bit at the wool cloak she wore. Affronted, Anya stepped back and looked at the horse with a soured glare.

"Bother him too much and he's bound to knock you on your arse," the unfamiliar voice had startled her, a large shadow loomed over her and when she turned it was Joffrey's dog who was looking down at her. Sandor Clegane had his arms crossed, a broadsword still strapped to his back. The man was intimidating in size alone but the burns on his face made him fearsome. Anya turned back to the black horse, who was now considerably calmer since his rider had appeared and pulled off her deerskin riding gloves, "I see where he gets his temper from," she smirked and tossed her gloves to the corner table to be put away by the stablehands.

The Hound glanced down at her with indifference, "Aren't you supposed to be at the feast, girl?" She shrugged and pulled a half empty wineskin from her cloak, the summerwine had almost begun to freeze in the night air. Anya took a long drink from the skin and offered it up to Sandor, when he did not take it from her hand she shook it impatiently and with a gruff noise from the back of his throat he took it. The man turned the skin up, drinking a hefty amount of the remaining wine.

"I could ask the same of you," Anya challenged, Sandor looked at her as if she were mad to speak to him so crassly. She wandered off for a short moment and returned with a green apple in hand. With a curt nod from the Hound, the little Lady offered the piece of fruit to the black horse. He took it from her almost gently and in return, she could pat his neck without being nipped at or kicked. "Does he have a name?"

Sandor looked at his black warhorse. The horse had been by his side for seven years and counting. Some had joked that the horse was even harder to kill than him. He stepped up and reached over the wooden stall door to pat the black beast. "Stranger," upon hearing his name the horse whinnied affectionately and nudged the man's shoulder. "He's a good horse." Anya laughed softly, _a good horse indeed though his behavior says otherwise_.

"I have no doubt," Anya smiled and pushed back the hood of her cloak, honey-colored curls spilled out from the beneath the dark material and the muddled braid that had once been neatly done. "Perhaps it is best if I return," she knew with Benjen's arrival that Ned would grow wary of her prolonged absence and it would be duly noted by the royal guests that the youngest sister of Lord Stark had avoided them. "Would you see a lady safely to the occasion?"

The Hound glanced down at her with a dubious expression, few people could look him in the eye for so long before his scars warded them away but the little Lady standing next to him was either blind or stubborn. Either way, it unnerved him and he found himself looking away when he replied to her gentle request, "Aye if there was a lady present." There were many responses she could have uttered or done upon hearing such a statement but her laugh, like a songbird's call, filled the night and chased away the chill for only a moment. She always appreciated it when other's treated her as an equal, not just a dainty highborn lady. "Come on, little Lady, let's get you back to Lord Stark," he did not offer her the crook of his arm, nor did he offer his hand as a knight would have done, the two walked side by side in silence back to the Great Hall and Anya found that she was content with that.

-

Ned had taken up the king's offer when he told her of the arrangements she felt sick. Adding to her queasiness was the news Robb brought. "Aunt Anya! Come quickly, Bran has fallen." Anya tried to take two steps at a time to reach the boy's room but twice she fell and when she reached the top her palms were scraped and bleeding. Catelyn stood next to the bed in which the boy laid. Maester Luwin looked over Bran with great care as if not to wake him from a peaceful dream. Catelyn had turned away from her embrace and sobbed, there was little anyone could do to relieve her pain.

Anya followed the maester from the room and down a handful of stairs, "Tell me the truth of it." She had learned of Catelyn's stubbornness, the woman had an incredible gift that allowed her to fall deaf when there was news that she did not wish to hear. Now in her grief, Anya knew she would not believe the words of the maester beyond the admission that the boy would likely live.

"If Bran wakes, which I believe that he will in time, the boy will never walk again," her chest seized with an immense amount of heartache. Little Brandon Stark, the boy she had helped raise, the boy who loved to ride through the Wolfswood and climb the stone walls of Winterfell would never walk again, never _climb_ again. Luwin had a solemn expression that condemned Anya before she had even thought of some obscure way to ensure that Bran would walk again. "There is nothing you can do for the boy but pray." His chain clanked together in the silence as he turned and descended the stairs.

Lady Stark's fingers were close to bleeding as she wove and twined together vines and twigs to make a prayer wheel. "Catelyn." She only spared a quick glance at Anya before returning to the half-finished skeletal prayer wheel in her lap.

The Whent girl wasn't sure what else she could do for Catelyn. She would not wish to hear her condolences, however truthful that were. Anya would never know the pain of watching her child hang to life by an uncertain thread. Oft times she felt like a mother but all it took was a sharp look from Catelyn to remind her that she had borne no children of her own. With her farewells said and done to Bran and a kiss to his forehead she turned to leave, it was then that the boy's mother spoke to her in a voice barely above a whisper, "Go. Go with Ned and the girls, please."

"I will." And so she gathered what belongings seemed fit to take to the capital and packed them into a small coffer and two trunks, half of one was filled with books, the other half contained a bow, quiver, and two bundles of arrows.   

Anya and all those that would be traveling south with Ned gathered in the Great Hall and broke their fast on boiled eggs, salted ham, and bacon. Baskets of toasted bread had been scattered about the table with pots of honey and prickleberry preserves. Jory had tried making small talk but the Whent girl hardly responded and when she did it oft did not even pertain to what he had asked. She left her plate almost untouched and set out to the courtyard.

Shaggydog padded up to her as the Lannister guardsmen carried the queen and her children's trunks to the covered wayns. It cemented the fact that she was leaving Winterfell, leaving home. The wolf had gone after she scratched between his ears and then the youngest Stark child was calling for the wild beast. "Rickon! My sweet summer child," Anya scooped Rickon up, mussing his hair. The boy didn't seem to realize that she was leaving. He wiggled in her arms as to escape her affections as any boy his age would have done. "You best behave for your mother."

Rickon looked at her with his bright blue eyes and hugged Anya around the neck without saying a word, he had never been much of talker. She put the boy down and nudged him towards the black direwolf sitting next to a wooden beam. "Run along with Shaggydog."

The stables had been emptied of the horses the royal party had brought, leaving only Stark horses behind. Shadow tossed his mane and reluctantly took the bit of his bridle. With her saddle slung over her shoulder, she led the black stallion from his stall. Some of the queen's ladies looked at her with wrinkled noses as she tightened the straps and adjusted the buckles on her horse, undoubtedly the thought of true manual labor was the cause of their expression. Tyrion Lannister gave her an odd look in passing as well. She knew that as a highborn lady a stable hand should have already readied her horse but Shadow was a stubborn beast and the last person to saddle him had almost lost two fingers.

The wind was bone chilling and made her eyes water as the hood of her cloak was blown off her head. Anya placed the stock saddle on Shadow's back and began doing tightening the straps and buckles. "Aunt Anya." Robb was behind her looking like a proper Lord.

"Robb," she turned and quickly embraced him, it would be unbecoming for her to coddled him now that he would be the acting Lord of Winterfell, yet she kissed her forehead anyways. The entire morning had been controlled by the solemn atmosphere looming over the castle and it left Anya with little choice but to make themselves laugh. "Don't let Winterfell burn to the ground while we're away either." Robb laughed, only he and Jon appreciated her morose sense of humor, others found it distasteful for a lady of her status. He moved around the opposite side of Shadow. "Tell Theon that his absence has wounded me."

Balon Greyjoy's son had left before the break of dawn to go hunting when he returned she would be gone along with half of Winterfell, but they had spoken and said farewell the prior evening. The eldest Stark boy fastened the flank billet on Shadow's saddle and gave the stirrup a tug. Anya swung herself onto the saddle and took the reins into her hands. "Keep Arya out of trouble." The Whent girl smiled, "You ask me to do the impossible."

The party traveling to King's Landing had turned south on the Kingsroad, those that were returning to Castle Black went north. Benjen and Anya had stopped at the intersection of the road that connected Winterfell to the other kingdoms. Both their mounts stamped hooves and nudged at one another waiting for a race to begin between the brother and sister. Her voice was brittle even though she tried to conceal it. "You better take care of him, Benjen," Anya had tears in her eyes at the prospect of hardly seeing Jon anymore. She would be half a world away in King's Landing for gods know how long. She had seen Jon Snow every day for fifteen years and now he was not hers to watch over and protect.

"For you, I'll do everything in my power," relief came over her worried face when Benjen reached for one of her hands, "but the boy will be a man soon, sister." Anya nodded, she understood that even though he was a green boy now that after saying taking the oath and saying the vows of the Night's Watch he would become a brother, a man. Tyrion Lannister had ridden ahead with Yoren and Dolorous Edd. The Imp had a desire to see the Wall for some obscene reason.

Shadow was becoming antsy as was her brother's chestnut mare, Willow. Benjen had never seen her look so torn and desolate. She looked like a wilting rose with only a handful of days left before all her petals had dried and fallen. "Take care." The ranger nodded and urged his mare into a brisk canter. She did the same but rode in the opposite direction to see Jon.

"Jon," she pulled back on the reins of Shadow and the horse obediently came to a halt. Before she could stop herself, Anya had slipped from her saddle and Jon had done the same. The first time she had laid eyes upon Jon Snow had been on the hill which they stood now. He was a babe swaddled in fur held in Eddard Stark's arms. He had looked up at her and smiled. She had fallen in love with him then and there.

"Aunt Anya." Her throat was tight. She was sure the next thing she said would come out as sobs but somehow she bit back the tears and smoothed the crisscrossing straps of the heavy black cloak. He wore black from head to toe, like Benjen, the color suited him just as well. "Black has always been your color." Jon blinked away the dampness in his eyes and smiled.

"Stay safe, you here?" He nodded. The distance between them was gone in an instant. Jon was taller than her now but for one last time he let himself be a small boy and buried his face into her neck the way he had done if he woke from a bad dream. Anya stepped back with a fading smile, "Off you go." He remounted rode north and she went south. I will not weep, _direwolves do not cry_. She was a Stark now. It was the direwolf sigil that had been embroidered on her cloak, not the nine bats of House Whent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandor/Anya interaction! Yay!


	9. Seven

Traveling on the Kingsroad was a royal pain in Anya Whent's arse. At each inn and castle they came too, Robert commanded the cavalcade to stop for food and drink and if there was a whore he could stick his prick in for the night it made everything all the better. It seemed winter would have come and gone before they even reached the capital. She regretted leaving Winterfell and dreaded arriving at King's Landing. Upon crossing the lands of vassal lords feasts were thrown to honor the King, she swore the man got fatter with every meal and glass of wine.

Anya had rode next to Ned for some time before riding ahead to catch Sandor. She rode often at his side, trailing behind Prince Joffrey, who seemed to be amused that a wolf had taken an interest in a hound. They never spoke much, only exchanging a few words here and there with odd glances sprinkled between whatever was spoken. He found a strange type of solace in her company. She could look him in the eye without cringing, even some knights could not manage that feat. He found that he respected her even if she acted like a prim and proper highborn lady.

After nearly a straight fortnight on the road, Cersei pleaded with Robert that they stop and rest for a day. He obliged the Queen and everyone stopped at a small inn and tavern. Shadow had been taken off her hands by Jory, the opportunity to be relieved of sitting for endless hours on a saddle was sorely welcomed. Anya stripped off her cloak and riding gloves, practically falling into her tent for a moment's rest that lasted longer than she had anticipated.

It would have been the hour of ghosts when she crawled from her tent with a grumbling stomach and a hankering for wine. The king had drunk all the stores of wine and ale that royal party had packed for the return trip, giving Anya yet another reason to be in a soured mood while riding sober. It was a tragedy as she was sure the wine would have helped her tolerate Cersei and the other ladies' complaints about the severity of traveling without all their fineries. 

Half of the camp was awake; the other half either snoring or silent as the grave. The Whent girl made her way towards the tavern when she caught sight of a dark figure propped against one of the trees, a dog's head helm being polished with an oiled rag. Anya went up to Sandor Clegane without a moment's hesitation, "Take a drink with me?"

The Hound looked for something that would tell him she was jesting, that maybe she had been dared to approach him but there was no deception in her eyes. He grunted, the mass of scarring above his eye twitched as if he were trying to raise the drooping brow in challenge. "Last I heard it was unladylike to drink." Anya scoffed, her arms crossed as Sandor stood. Next to him she looked especially delicate even though she squared her shoulders off and glared at him.

"Then let's pretend I'm not a lady for the night, shall we?" The scarred man snorted and followed behind the little Lady. An innkeeper brought two bowls of beef broth and a loaf of bread that had been burnt on the bottom. Anya tossed him two silver stars, they were pocketed quickly and flagons of wine were sent to them just as hastily. There was no flatware though that hardly seemed to bother Sandor Clegane. He pulled off a hunk of the bread and dunked it in the broth. She opted to drink from the bowl with no objection to the lack of spoons. Broth trickled down both their chins and near simultaneously they wiped their mouths with the back of their hand.

On their third tankard of sweet red the Hound's tongue had been loosened and after several bawdy jests, Anya realized the possibility that he could make a very good drinking companion. "Can you play the harp and sing pretty little songs?" It was clear the question was meant to be mocking towards what was expected of highborn ladies though Anya couldn't be bothered to find it offensive.

"It has been years since I have touched a harp, as for the singing, I know the songs but my singing scares away even the rats," Anya sighed and looked at the contents of her tankard, if she looked long enough she could see her reflection in the red liquid, "Most of the time I wished I had been born with a cock to spare myself from the sewing lessons." The tips of her fingers were still rough because of how many times she stuck herself with a needle, sometimes on purpose in hopes that the Septa would excuse her though it never worked.

Despite it being a true statement the Hound howled with laughter, half the inn had grown silent at the unexpected sound. "You're not half bad, little Lady," the compliment caused a warm flush to creep up her neck and into her cheeks. Anya took a generous gulp of wine and drug her tunic's sleeve across her lips, leaving a red stain behind.

Deciding it best that she at least try to sleep some before the morrow the Whent girl stood and finished off her tankard the way a man would in a drinking game, "Neither are you." She would have offered him a smile but it didn't seem right, he didn't want her sweet words or manners, nor to hear the words that Septa Nyla had taught her. She was unreservedly herself in these rare moments of solitude. It was all so very refreshing.

-

Another week passed and for the seventh time the queen's wheelhouse axle had broken over the rougher terrain of the Riverlands, only this time, luck had allowed them to be stranded at the Crossroads Inn by the afternoon. Jaime Lannister and a handful of other Lannister soldiers had ridden ahead, leaving the company of the king. Anya envied the Kingslayer, every day it grew harder to hold her tongue and act properly around the southerners. The only one she did not want to strike down on the spot was Sandor and even then there were times when she wished to be rid of him as well.

"You know how to sharpen a blade?" If Sandor had watched her slide the small chunk of a whetstone down the edge of her own blade he wouldn't have needed to ask, but perhaps the question was for the sake of conversation. Anya nodded and looked down each side of her bastard sword, appraising the work she had done. He followed her practiced movements as she ran a wet cloth over the sword and picked up a sheathed knife that was no longer than her forearm. The hilt was gold, the pommel encrusted with rubies and emeralds, the blade was wavy and rippled from the forging style. She named it a misericorde, a weapon meant to provide the gift of mercy with its thin tapered point, the knife was a gift from a  Braavosi trader that had been at Eastwatch by chance when Lord Rickard had taken his children along the Wall. "Do you know how to use them?"

 _Why would I have the bloody things if I didn't know how to use them,_ Anya stood in a single fluid movement with her bastard sword in hand. The Hound had withdrawn his own long sword from the scabbard on his back. She side-stepped the large man as a feint; he had expected it and blocked the intended blow to his waist. A few of those who had been carrying off linens and delivering fresh wine to the king's tent stopped and watched the two exchange blows.

Iron clashed against steel several times, the dull ringing had brought even more spectators to their sudden squabble. Sansa had come to stare wide-eyed at her aunt with near embarrassment _, ladies are not supposed to fight and knights are not supposed to harm ladies_. As Anya gritted her teeth and drove Sandor back a step she was neglecting all the things that she, herself, had told Sansa and Arya in their lessons with the Septa. It was no small wonder that Arya was so keen to spend time with her.

Their footwork was seamless, like a well-rehearsed dance. Each parry was matched with a blow. The little Lady was grinning though she had begun breathing heavily but smile faded. He was holding back, she came at him harder and quicker, using her swift frame to her advantage. Sandor and Anya swung their blades at the same time, each had swords at the other's neck but it was Anya who had come out on top this time, she had pressed a blunted dagger from her belt to the inside of Sandor's thigh. She didn't know what to make of his expression when they stepped apart and laid down arms and she wasn't given a chance to speak with him either.

Most didn't see her dagger and simply called the match a tie with indifference. Jory had rushed to her and after seeing that she was unhurt, he scolded her for engaging in such rough play with someone like the Hound. Yet as they walked away to see Ned, he asked how she could have deceived one of the most feared men in Westeros, who was also one of the best swordsmen. Anya had laughed, "I can't give away all my secrets." Jory's face was flush when they entered the largest of the Stark tents. 

Ned was sitting at a small desk, a scroll of parchment flattened out before him and a quill in hand. The inkwell was almost empty. Anya sat in the corner of the tent, bored with the world after having the opportunity to engage in swordplay. She found more interest in the dirt beneath her fingernails than she did with the affairs of the state her brother was dealing with at the moment. "Do you know how much longer we will be on the road?" Already a month had passed, the return journey was talking much longer than had been expected. The wheelhouse broke axle after axle and halted travel on several occasions until a rider could return with a new one from a blacksmith that had been in a previous town they had passed through.

"We're nearing Harrenhal," Lord Stark tapped away the excess ink back into the small glass inkwell and looked up at his sister, he was curious to see her expression at the mention of her first home, "Two more weeks at the most." Anya supposed that was better than hearing it would be another month, though the thought of even coming close to Harrenhal unsettled her. Presumably, only her mother remained alive and with a small garrison to fortify the class, she hated to even think of what it would look like now. More than likely it was further decayed and cavernous. "Will you find Arya? It's time for her lessons."

Obediently she left him in peace and went to find the young girl. Arya was not to be seen in the mass of tents and scattered men. Anya had decided to check near the river, after all Arya was part Tully and had loved swimming when the weather allowed it, but before she could reach the tree line one of the Cersei's ladies in waiting screamed when Joffrey was brought back to the camp with half his arm bloodied. The boy prince proclaimed that is was Arya and a butcher's boy that had attacked him before setting Nymeria on him as well. She managed a glance at the three punctures that wouldn't even scar if treated properly. The amusement surrounding the situation faded when the queen ordered her Lannister guards to search for the girl and boy and to kill the beast that maimed her child.

Anya took up a torch and set off into the woods, Jory had already gone and when the word reached Ned he joined her. They had to find the Arya before the king's men did. The Hound followed the search party into the woods astride Stranger with his own orders. "Arya!" Night was falling, torches flickered through the forest as everyone called out the girl's name. "Arya!" Her heart was pounding and aching all at once. "Ned," she stopped her brother and he sensed her fear and unease. He hadn't any words to say so he hugged her like he used to do when they were both younger.

The search lasted half the night with fruitless findings until Jory came running through the woods where Stark men were scattered about calling for Arya, "My lord! My lord! They found her. She's unharmed." He was out of breath, both Stark's gave a long sigh of relief.

"Where is she?" There was still urgency in Ned's voice.

"She's been taken directly before the King," Jory answered. Anya's eyes brows furrowed. The girl should have been brought directly to her father, it reeked of a ploy that the queen had devised. "Who took her?" Jory looked at Anya and back to Ned.

"The Lannisters found her."

"Right, get back," a handful of the men nearby had heard Ned's command and started back through the woods towards the inn. "The Queen ordered them to bring her straight to him," Jory continued to divulge. Lord Eddard Stark only grew more apoplectic with each passing second.

"Back! Back to the inn. All back!" He shouted. Anya tugged on Ned's sleeve to draw is attention back to her. "Let me try to find the butcher's boy and Nymeria," her brother gave a curt nod and wished for her swift return. She knew how much the wolf meant to Arya, the least she could do was send the beast away so Cersei would never be able to have her hide and fur. As for the boy, if she found him he would need to run, fast and far if he wished to live until his next name day. She shouted for the boy and called out the direwolf's name until her throat was near raw.

Anya returned to the Inn with nothing to show for her search. Mycah hadn't been seen and Nymeria was gone. She had only heard the last of what Robert, Cersei, and Ned had been saying. Jory tried calming the girls but the cried and Arya would still shout that her sister and the prince were liars. She followed her brother and jumped in front of him, her eyes glistening with tears unshed, "Ned! Isn't there another way?"

With a heavy heart Eddard Stark shook his head, he had always hated breaking his children's hearts and his sister's. He had broken her heart many times. "If not by my hand than it would be by a butcher's," Anya swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded, she understood that it had to be done. As her brother walked away to where Lady was tied a shadowed figured walking next to a large horse approached the camp. Something had been thrown over the horse's saddle, like a slaughtered animal. Anya noticed blood dripping from the animal's legs. As they drew closer she realized that it was not an animal at all.

It was a boy. Red of hair and round of face. Mycah, the butcher's boy. The Whent girl felt sick. He had almost been cut in two. "How could you?! He was only a boy!" Sandor made a gruff noise that came from the back of his throat, it almost sounded like a growl. Anya took a stumbling step backward when she heard Lady yelp and the wailing of Sansa and Arya from their respective tents. "It's not my place to question princes or queens. When you give a dog a command he follows it." He walked away to present the queen and prince their prize.

In the solitude of her tent, she wept. A lone wolf howled in the night, crying out for its pack.

The next day Anya rode in silence. Ned was in no mood to speak either. Harrenhal's crumbling towers came and went but she could not find it within herself to even look in the direction of the home she had run away from. All she chose to see was the Kingsroad before her. On the morrow, they would reach King's Landing. Anya rode well behind the traveling party, Shadow had already tried to bite both Ned and Jory. It seemed she was doomed to ride alone.

For one last time tents were set up and horses led away by traveling stablehands to a stream to drink and have their shoes cleaned of caked mud. The Whent girl remained largely to herself. Arya still would not speak to Sansa or her father after the incident, even though her sister still mourned the loss of Lady. Anya was grateful they would be arriving soon, the trip had been spectacularly embittered since the first rift between the Starks and Lannisters began.

While the evening meal was being prepared she wandered into the forest and hacked at a young oak tree until she feared that it would damage her blade. Anya thought about Jon, and how he had beat half-a-hundred training dummies into the dirt, she hoped he was well and that the Wall treated him more kindly than the Kingsroad had treated her. She supped alone as well on a small meal of roast venison, buttered turnips, and brown oatbread that had been burnt. The length of the journey had strained what stocks of food they had been given and bought in small towns around the Green Fork. Wine had begun to sour in the open heat, she drank it regardless. Drinking was becoming a terrible habit.

A long shadow was cast over her in the setting sun. Closing her book, she stood from her place under an elm tree as the Hound approached her. Anya could smell the ale on his breath and frowned, "Do you finally see me as a killer, little Lady? A monster?" He expected her to be afraid, to cower in fear and disgust at the sight of him. The evenness of her expression infuriated him to no end. 

The Whent girl lifted her chin and clutched her book against her chest, "A killer? Yes. I've known you were a killer since I realized who you were." Everyone was a killer, that was the way things were. The world she had been born into was created by killers, it was a truth she had come to accept the moment she put an arrow through a wildling's eye. "But a monster? No." Others may have seen him for an abomination but she knew true monsters and what they did. He was a dog.

"A dog's masters are the ones at fault." Anya never did break eye contact with the Hound until she walked back to her tent, leaving Sandor in her wake. She would not speak to him for the rest of the night or when they were on the road the following day.

 


	10. Eight

Sandor Clegane followed Joffrey around like his shadow, or better yet, like his dog. The prince wished to take a stroll around the castle grounds and perhaps pay his ladylove a visit, after all, it was expected of him that he woo and win Sansa Stark's affections. He would certainly need to try harder after what had happened on the Kingsroad. Septa Mordane had greeted the two at the Tower of the Hand and quickly went up to fetch Sansa.

Anya Whent came down before Sansa did. The Hound shifted on his feet, the mere sight of her put him at unease. The gods had fashioned her to be a world of paradoxes and he hated that. Today she was dressed to be a proper lady, with stained cheeks and lips to make her simple gown more becoming of her status.

She offered the prince a greeting and smile but ignored the man standing behind him as every other highborn in the city did. The scent of fresh cut roses lingered in the air around her. _You're just like the rest of them, two-faced_. Though his stony expression gave away nothing but disinterest something within him felt angered and misplaced at her disregard. They had spoken as friends while in Winterfell and even on the Kingsroad until he had cut down the butcher's boy, _but she didn't place the blame me_. The sweet scent of her perfume had not left, he was suffocating in it, in her.

Sansa came fresh-faced and timid, wearing a simple plum dress with flowing sleeves, the neckline was adorned with knots and roses bordered with gold thread. The girl's gentle smile faded when she saw the Hound standing behind her prince. "You're frightening my lady, Dog." Obediently he backed off a few paces but never let the two out of his sight as Joffrey took the girl around the Keep. Except for the moment, he paused and looked up at the ramparts to see Jaime _fucking_ Lannister escorting Anya somewhere like a proper knight, arm in arm. _I bet you like that don't you, little Lady_.

He had never been so distracted in his life and it was because of a fucking woman. A wolf bitch, no less. Whatever relationship they had built up in the two months of knowing the other had vanished all in the span of a night. Sandor thought they had come to a point where they may have been friends, he wouldn't have known, though, people that dared to make acquaintance with Lannister's loyal dog were few and far between. The more he thought about it, Sandor realized he had never had a friend. He had masters.

Then there had been something in her voice when she called him a dog that struck him dumb, the feeling still lingered, like the smell of roses. _You're a dog, Clegane, that's all your ever be_. Anya had been distraught at that boy's death but when he approached her about it, she had placed the blame elsewhere. She blamed Cersei and Joffrey, rightfully so, any of the Lannister men would have killed the boy given the command. She knew that as well, so why was she still acting like he was dirt beneath her feet? _Damn, that bloody woman_.

Prince Joffrey had said something that made the Stark girl laugh, a ladylike giggle that was on the verge of being high-pitched. She spoke prettily, repeating the sweet words that her Septa had told her a hundred times over. Sansa still wore the innocence of youth, her blue eyes had not lost their twinkle. The poor girl was ignorant to the real world, she lived in her stories of fair maidens and brave knights. _She doesn't know any better_. For a brief moment, he pitied Sansa Stark.

By midafternoon, Sansa had been returned to her rooms as to prepare for the night's feast. Joffrey was to be escorted back to his own chambers. The little prick looked up at his sworn shield, even he could something was going on in Sandor's head.

"What's the matter with you, Dog? You've been licking your wounds like a kicked pup." The Hound knew better than to answer a question spoken in a tone such as that. He stood outside the prince's chambers, every once and a while he would catch a trace of something sweet, like roses.

-

The handmaidens that had been provided by the royal family for all the Stark women had only begun unpacking the two trunks and coffer Anya had brought. Still, it was nowhere near the amount of luggage Cersei traveled with, or even Sansa for that matter.

A guard with a pinched face had shown her the way onto the ramparts. Within an hour she had walked around the entire Keep and stood in the same place where she had started. She had never smelt a more horrible stench than the one of King's Landing. Even on the road, she could smell the city from miles away like an overflowing cesspit. Robert had laughed when her stomach nearly gave up her breakfast.

Smoke, sweat, and shit. The summer heat only made the smell worse. Old stories had said that Maegor the Cruel killed the builders before they could build proper drainage and sewers in the city as he wished to protect the numerous secret passages and tunnels that had been constructed while the Red Keep was completed. A breeze from the sea was a welcome gift as it dulled the stench of the city. "This place is an absolute pigsty," she spoke aloud to no one in particular.

"Quite right," Jaime Lannister echoed, his white cloak was soiled at the bottom from the mud and puddles that had been in the streets. It was fitting that an oathbreaker should wear a tainted cloak. She sighed, exasperated, "Ser Jaime, I must say I envy your early arrival." Had Ned been more accommodating of her wish to ride ahead of the royal envoy she would have already been well acquainted with the Kingslayer as a traveling companion.

His smile was crooked, "You have my sincerest condolences, Lady Anya," there was not an ounce of sincerity in his voice. Anya turned back to look over the city once again, nothing about it was particularly enticing. In truth, it was rather small compared to some of the great cities of Essos she had read about, even if the population said otherwise.

One more whiff of the city's stench and she turned on heel to face Jaime, "Could you show me to the library?"

The Kingslayer offered up the crook of his arm for her to take. "I suppose there is a minute to be spared." Joffrey and Sansa passed by them on their way, the Hound trailed behind with his hand resting on his swordbelt. Anya glanced at the man from the corner of her eye, never had she seen a person look so grim. Her thoughts had been carried away at the sight of him but she righted herself and sought a conversation with the Kingslayer.

"Shouldn't you be with Robert?" She dared to ask. Jaime laughed but it was humorless and bitter. "He's drunk and fucking a whore, I believe he is in good hands with Ser Barristan outside his door." Anya supposed his resentment for Robert was warranted in some ways. The queen was his sister and each time the king fucked a whore he was dishonoring Cersei Lannister and forcing her own brother to witness the act.

The Whent girl bit down on her bottom lip trying to prevent the question on the tip of her tongue from sliding out but it didn't work, she asked him anyways. "Do you not like your pretty white cloak anymore?" Had it been from someone Jaime had known longer he would have taken it in an almost teasing way, but Anya was far too observant of minor details. If the great game did not kill her then her loose tongue would. "That is a dangerous question to ask," the Kingslayer rebutted. They had entered Maegor's Holdfast, the main building of the keep. Only servants were in the halls, some were scrubbing the stone floors and walls, a handful polished and dusted the suits of black armor that had been left from the Targaryen dynasty, others carried armfuls of linens to the royal apartments.

"Then it is one that needs answering," she mused aloud, smiling in a manner that near unsettled the hailed knight. "I don't think you are enchanted with it as you once were. King Aerys, mad as he was, never liked the power your father held. What better way to spite Tywin Lannister than stealing away his golden son to join the Kingsguard? Leaving him with only a daughter and a dwarf to inherit the great Casterly Rock." Only when she had finished did she spare a glance in his direction.

She had ruffled the lion's mane, that was certain but he remained stoic, "A fine observation, my lady, and to a degree true." He stopped at a massive set of oak doors wrapped in black iron. "Here you are, Anya," Jaime pushed open one of the doors, "the library." Books lined shelves all the way to the top of the tower, a staircase hewn from stone spiraled up the walls with a rolling ladder. There were more books in a single space than there had been at Winterfell and Harrenhal combined, granted many of Harrenhal's tomes had been burnt.

"Thank you, Jaime." It had been a long time since he had seen such candid bliss overcome a person at his doing. Something about the glint in her eyes reminded him of his own brother.

"Perhaps we may continue this conversation over the boar that is to be served at the feast tonight," he suggested. Anya smiled, this time, it was genuine. "Boar has never been to my taste, I prefer chicken." He would have laughed at that statement had it not been for everything else, nonetheless, Jaime gave a curt nod and left her as he had his own duties to attend to.

The first book Anya picked up was a large tome bound in black leather with scales pressed into the soft fabric. Dust scattered into the air as she wiped off the cover to reveal the title written in gilded ink that had long been fading. _A History of Valyria_. She had only heard the tales of the great city, the rise, and fall, and of the treasures some claimed to still be within the ruins. Deciding that this book was an excellent starting point, Anya discovered a disused chaise tucked away behind a shelf. After several minutes she had positioned it in a place where sunlight would stream through the windows to illuminate the scribed words on each page.

 _At its apex Valyria was the greatest city in the known world, the center of civilization. Within its shining walls, twoscore rival houses vied for power and glory in court and council, rising and falling in an endless, subtle, oft-savage struggle for dominance_. In her mind, she pictured a large city, five times the size of King's Landing, and this one had functional sewers. The Fourteen Fires would have surrounded the island city, looming overhead with unspoken threats of impending doom, and there were dragons. Hundreds of dragons, large and small would fly over the Freehold, their breath would both build and destroy.

 _If only I could see a dragon, a real live dragon, then perhaps I could die happy_. Anya turned the page and submerged herself into the rivalries of the dragonlords of old.

Ned had sent Jory in search of Anya, she was expected to attend the feast and as she had not returned to her rooms to freshen up or change there was no telling where she would have wandered off to. Jory Cassel had a pretty good idea of where she would have gone. It took him a little while to find the library but as soon as he pushed open the doors she was there, nose deep in a tome as thick as her own head. Marking the page with a sliver of parchment she looked up to see who the intrusion had been caused by. "Come, my lady, the feast is about to start."

As much as she loathed the thought of attending another feast, Anya knew it was required of her. She placed the book aside and stood, smoothing down her skirt. "What have I told you about calling me that?" She chided, "How many times do I have to ask you to call me Anya like you did when we were children?"

Jory offered her his arm, "Once more, my lady, as always." The Whent girl could only smile at his stubborn chivalry. It must have been the first time he did not don a shirt of mail beneath his leather doublet since leaving Winterfell. He wore a quilted tunic the color of a winter's sky instead, the color made his brown eyes look darker. Anya would have said he looked handsome if she felt it would not overstep an invisible boundary between duty and intimacy.

The first course of butternut squash soup had already been served when the pair entered. Only a handful looked up at as they entered, the queen being one of them. Cersei could hardly believe the state of Lord Eddard's sister, dust and ink had been smudged on her cheek and rubbed to the point that it appeared she had not bathed in a week. The boxy grey dress only given shape by a tearing leather belt was another monstrosity. The queen thought it best to overlook the careless appearance of both Anya and Arya for the remainder of the evening no matter how challenging that feat would be.

Anya's seat was across from Sansa and between Ned and Jory. It was strange to sit next to Ned, the seat to his left had always been for Catelyn since their marriage and the seat to his right would be where Robb set when they were not hosting Northern lords. A wild boar that had been basted with butter, garlic, rosemary, and honey was brought forth on a wooden stretcher. The beast was so large four men had to share the weight. Robert boasted and claimed he had killed a boar twice the size when he was younger, she along with most of the other's in the hall, realized the king was already drunk.

Roast parsnips and potatoes that were doused in butter came with a hunk of the meat. Sansa, Arya, and even Anya poked around at the fatty chunk of boar with distaste, settling for the side dishes and bread instead. Shortly after the main course was cleared from the table five monstrous strawberry pies were presented with dishes of lemon sherbet. It was the only course the Whent girl thoroughly enjoyed. She looked around the hall, scanning over each of the faces until her eyes fell upon Sandor Clegane. The Hound was seated at a far off table with three of the Kingsguard, Anya lowered her gaze to the crumbs of pie crust in her plate as soon as the burnt man raised his head.

There was even a singer in attendance for the feast and as everyone nibbled at the last course, he sang. _The Day They Hanged Black Robin_ was the second song he performed, right after _Fifty-Four Tuns_. Half way through the solemn piece, Robert threw his wine towards the man and demanded a new song, so the lone singer played _A Cask of Ale_ to appease the King.

Anya nursed her cup of Arbor gold and relished in the fact that she had not been brought into any of the gossiping conversations that the ladies of the court shared in. "I heard you found the library," her brother remarked.

She nodded, "Yes, Ser Jaime was kind enough to show me the way to it," Ned bristled at the mention of Jaime Lannister. It was no secret to her that the two rarely saw eye-to-eye, he would likely tell her to refrain from interacting with the Kingslayer though she had already planned to keep her distance from the queen's twin brother. Anya did not enjoy entertaining the thoughts of what it would feel like when Cersei grew jealous and decided to sink her manicured claws into the Whent girl. At the thought, she drank the rest of her wine and poured another glass.

Sansa and Arya had been taken to their chambers for the night by Septa Mordane, the queen's children were the next to disappear from the feast. Soon after Anya had tired of the festivities and decided it best to retire for the night, in the coming months she would have a lot of reading to do and it would be a shame if she slept during the day. Eddard bid her a good rest and sent Jory with her. He was no fool; they had come to a dangerous place and he had to protect his family.


	11. Nine

The days were sluggish to pass and the nights were even longer. A month had passed but it felt like a year. Most nights she stayed up to ungodly hours reading or writing letters to Benjen. It had become of droll habit since he had left for the Night's Watch. She would write letter after letter, sealing them with red wax and her own seal of a bat and direwolf. Lord Rickard had given her the seal on a nameday, she couldn't remember which it was exactly anymore. The letters that piled up in her desk's compartments were always bound together with twine and when Benjen came back to Winterfell she would give them to him. He would read one every day. The men of the Night's Watch had no family but Benjen had a sister, and he would not forsake her. She missed him more now than ever.

Anya had nearly stayed up till dawn, with only a few hours of sleep and no duties for the day, she had gone to the library. It wasn't the first time she had fallen asleep in the library, but this time, when she woke again with a book still in her lap, night had fallen.

There was no doubt that her brother would begin to worry soon, even if he knew where she had gone. Anya marked the page of the book, set it aside, and picked up her skirts to rush through the dark halls. She hated the Red Keep at night, everywhere she went there was always eyes watching from the shadows. Tonight was especially horrid as it was raining, the rain made the red stone look like wet blood.

She thought she had taken a wrong turn as nearly all the torches in their sconces had been extinguished from the dampness of the air but the hall ended at the archway that opened up to a courtyard. On the opposite side stood the Hand's Tower.

"Lady Stark," the rasping voice was unmistakable, she turned, hesitant at first. "You dropped this," Sandor Clegane held her hair comb in his open palm. The silver comb engraved with bats and set with yellow sapphires was the last thing she had left of House Whent; it was dwarfed by the size of his hand. Like a timid maiden, she took the ornamental hair piece, her fingers had not even brushed his hand.

"Thank you kindly," there was a stiffness in her voice that had not been there before the incident at the Inn. He regarded her with a strange expression and turned away. Anya was tired of ignoring him, of treating him like a dog. She had never wholly blamed him for what occurred that night at the Inn and it was foolish of her to have acted in such a way over the past month. In haste, she caught up to Sandor and gripped his arm. The action had clearly stupefied him. "The past has already been written, the ink is dry. Let us move on."

The Hound made a gruff noise from the back of his throat and nodded. She remained in the hallway, dim torches licking at the stone walls as he left. Lightning flashed across the sky.

-

The candles in her room had burned out, the book lay closed and finished on the bed. Anya's bones ached for a walk even at the late hour, she hadn't stretched in an ungodly amount of time, the book was simply too riveting to put down. Donning a linen cloak over her peasant-like kirtle, the Whent girl slipped from her door with a coin purse tucked away under her belt. The Stark men posted around the Hand's Tower had begun dozing off, some had disappeared completely from their positions.

She passed under an arch and into the gardens to see if any of moonflowers were in bloom. Harrenhal's Tower of Ghosts had vines of moonflowers that bloomed white against the charred stone. In a dark and cursed castle, the sight of moonflowers had always managed to make her smile. The rumors of the Red Keep's garden of night flowers was a lie, like many other things in the city of King's Landing. When she saw nothing, Anya turned back and headed to the city streets.

Goldcloaks were posted at what seemed to be every corner and turn, while they would have said nothing to her seeing as she was the Hand's sister, Anya saw it as a welcomed challenge. She had passed five already, none of them had even spared a glance in her direction. Slippered feet made not a single sound on the cobble paths and marble floors and she danced through the shadows unseen by all but one.

Cold steel bit at her neck and a large hand covered her mouth to muffle a scream had there been one. There was no pressure being applied to the knife and no reason she should be frightened, "You shouldn't go wandering about alone at night, little Lady." Her captor took the knife away and placed it back in a small sheath. Anya twisted away from the slackened grip of her captor.

"Sandor Clegane, what a pleasant surprise," her tone may have been derisive even though she spoke truthfully. She may have been the only person in all of Westeros that was glad to see his scarred face. His lips twisted in a mangled fashion to form what appeared to be a smile.

"Has Joffrey finished with you for the day?" He nodded. "Good, take me someplace I can get a decent ale." The Red Keep had a bloody endless supply of wine, some rooms had three platters with a full decanter and empty glasses waiting to be filled, but there wasn't ale, or mead, only wine.

Anya pottered along next to the Hound, two of her strides matched one of his. When they cleared the Keep and entered the streets, he looked down at her, "I won't be hauling you back when you're too drunk to stand."

She was almost offended. "I may be a lady, but I can handle my drink," she rebutted with utter certainty, his laugh was the sound of stones grinding against one another.

One hour and five tankards of mead later, Anya Whent was sprawled out across the bench in defeat, hiccupping. Sandor had howled in laughter when she accepted Balthal Xhamon's dare, he knew she could hold her own when it came to wine but mead was something else entirely. The sailor was impressed that she had even managed to get past three tankards and tossed a small pouch of copper and silver coin to Sandor for safe keeping, she had earned it. She was snoring, an unladylike thing to do that amused the tavern's customers to no end when they learned she was a _real_ Lady, the Hand's sister no less.

The tavern was beginning to clear out, there were only a few hours until the sun would be rising. "Should I call upon one of Lord Stark's men?" Gerrad Hills asked. He was the proprietor of the _Laughing Thief_ tavern, one of the better ones in the city, despite the name.

"Don't bother with it, I'll get her back to her brother." Hills gave a curt nod and returned to taking inventory of the liquor, mead, and ale left after the night. The Hound downed the rest of the wine in his cup and stood. With a grunt, Sandor lifted her off the bench and across his shoulder. Her arms hung limp as did her legs, she did not even stir when he began walking back to the Keep.

At the entrance to the Hand's Tower, three Northmen stood guard and when they noted it was Lady Anya the Hound carried two of them went to draw swords. "What have you done to her, Dog?" It was Jory Cassel who asked.

Sandor Clegane shrugged, readjusting the weight of the woman draped across his shoulder like a sack of grain. "The little Lady fancied a visit to the tavern, she'll have a hell of a headache come the morn." Jory found he had no reason to believe the man was lying, after all, he had known Anya since childhood and had drank with her enough times to know of her nature. "You gonna show me where to put her?" The captain of Lord Eddard Stark's household guards signaled for Sandor to follow him. Dimming embers in the hearth was the only source of light in the room until the wind blew the curtains open and bathed her bedchamber in silver moonlight. The Hound placed Anya on her bed under the watchful eyes of Jory, he even tossed a blanket over her before leaving her room and returning to his own sleeping accommodations.

Two morns later Joffrey was strolling around the castle grounds with the Hound trailing behind him. They had stopped at the armory and training grounds, asides from a lone figure hacking at a straw-stuffed dummy the place was empty. The realm was at peace, there wasn't any need for soldiers to be trained in the city. The crowned prince wondered who the man was that would train rather than drink and fuck. Only as the pair drew closer did he realize it wasn't a man at all, but a wolf.

Sweat made the coarse tunic stick to her back, wisps of hair that had escaped from their intended place framed a face that was red with exertion. Straw arms had been chopped off with what looked to be a single blow to each. She still hadn't taken notice of them. Sandor remembered their sparring match on the Kingsroad, their swords had been at each other's necks but she had concealed a dagger, the edge of which ended up unsettling close to his balls. Now he could watch her move.

It was clear she had been trained by a master-at-arms, squabbling with older brothers would do the trick too. Her movements were fluid, the sword was not a weight in her hand but an extension of her own arm. "Ha! A woman training with a sword," Joffrey settled his hand on his own sword, it was a poor replacement for  _Lion's Tooth_. The Hound wondered if he would be foolish enough to draw it and expect to win against her. Anya spun, putting all her strength into the force of the swing. Her blade cut clean through the straw dummy with ease even though the straw had been solidly packed.

"Even men must practice if they aspire to become great, my prince," she would not forget her courtesies, she _was_ a lady after all. Even if she wished to knock the spoiled boy on his arse for the cruel sneer he wore. Anya's spared a second's glance at Sandor, he seemed to know what she was thinking by the way his mangled lips pulled to a side in a lax smile.

"If you think you're so gifted then participate in the upcoming tourney and prove your worth. Come, Dog," the boy turned and stalked off, his Hound followed. The Whent girl drove her sword into the head of the training dummy as to prevent some regretful action from occurring.

It took half the day for Anya to calm her flaring temper. For once she returned to the Hand's Tower at a decent hour. Rana, Anya's chambermaid, was the same age as Sansa with tanned skin, dark brown hair and doe-like eyes. The girl tended a bath for her lady and continued on with her duties of changing linens and refilling the decanter of wine that sat next to a stack of books.

Anya felt oddly small in the copper tub. She had grown accustomed to the wooden tubs lined with cloth that Winterfell provided, before that, though, there was Harrenhal's bathhouse. Rana came with a tray of oils and soaps, usually, the girl would leave them within Anya's reach and leave as that was her lady's wish but today she washed her lady's hair with a vial of castile soap perfumed with roses.

"Your hair is so lovely, m'lady." The chambermaid must have brushed her hair already a hundred times over, there wasn't a single knot or strand out of place. It would need cutting soon as it already reached her lower back. Anya Whent was not a vain person by any means, but she loved her hair in a way that was selfish. She belonged to the North, even her skin and eyes said that much, but it was her honeyed hair that belonged to the South. That had been the hardest thing to explain to others when claims arose that she wasn't a true Stark.

"Will you let me braid it?" Rana asked. Anya nodded and remained lost in her thoughts. The small vassal houses sworn to the Starks had raised no questions about the young girl that was rumored have appeared in Winterfell. Most had not traveled to the seat of the North in years. The winter in which she was born was especially harsh, most assumed the ravens bearing news of another Stark child had been lost in storms, it was not uncommon. Lords of more notable houses that Lord Rickard trusted were told the truth of her identity and of the reasons she fled, they had sworn to protect her secret and the girl.

The people of Winter Town had just accepted her presence in Winterfell without question. The smallfolk had an unyielding loyalty to Lord Rickard, the girl was there for a reason, and if their Lord was protecting her then they should try as well. After a year no one questioned who she was because they already knew, she was Anya Stark. "All finished, m'lady." Anya was drawn from her thoughts and to her reflection. Rana had braided her hair in a Northern fashion, simple and practical, but honey curls still framed her freckled face. 

Four Starks and Septa Mordane had supped together on venison pie that was chunky with carrots, bacon, and mushrooms, and a crust so buttery and flakey it melted on the tongue. While Sansa and Arya had retired for the night with the urging of the Septa, Ned and Anya remained seated at the table. He was looking over ledgers and scrolls, tedious work that only a Hand could bear to do. Anya sipped on a golden vintage wine from the Arbor, rich and fruity. "What's this I hear about a tournament?" She swirled the wine in its long-stemmed crystal glass.

"There's not going to be one," came to quick and curt reply, she scowled and took a long sip of wine but Ned felt her heated gaze, "and if there is you will _not_ be competing." She cursed him for being able to read her so easily.

Anya wondered if Lord Eddard had ever realized that it was Lyanna who had competed in the Tourney at Harrenhal all those years ago. If he had managed to piece together the clues that it was his own sister who had bested several acclaimed knights. Lyanna had done it all under the guise as the Knight of the Laughing Tree. There would be no disguise for Anya should she try to compete, there would be no way her absence at her brother's own tournament would go unnoticed, finding armor was another challenge. _I'll have armor forged to fit me, a war is coming_.

Ned looked up from his papers, Anya's silence seemed odd, he expected her to protest and demand to compete, but she sat there across from him not speaking with a blank expression. She was the best archer he knew, but women not did compete in tourneys.

"Care to tell me anything about those scrolls?" When she was young political matters were always of interest but she was barred from many of Lord Walter's council meetings and forced to learn the ways of a proper lady. From the day she had been brought into the Stark household, they had always welcomed her opinions and valued her insight. Perhaps she would make an able Hand for a different king.

Ned pinched the bridge of his nose and for only a second the deep-set wrinkles in his brow vanished. "The crown's in debt to Tywin Lannister, yet Littlefinger seems to have the ability to make coin just _appear_." He rolled one scroll up and reached for another. Anya knew of the great wealth Casterly Rock held, but if rumors could be believed the last bit of gold had been plucked from the mines. If the Lannister's source of wealth had gone dry then perhaps in time their power would disintegrate, it was a foolish thing to hope for. Littlefinger was another case entirely, she had spoken to him thrice now and each time she loathed him a little more.

The little Lady took another sip of Arbor vintage, "All I have to say on the matter is let time run its course and don't trust Petyr Baelish." The Hand of the King gave a huff of indignation laced with exhaustion. The hour had grown late. "I'll leave you to it," Anya finished her wine and rounded the table to where her brother sat. She leaned down and kissed his temple, "Goodnight, Ned." 


	12. Ten

Ned was not pleased with the thought of a tournament being thrown in honor of him and the title he had come into upon arriving at King's Landing. The Tourney of the Hand was what the small council had named the event. Anya was not pleased either, it meant she was expected to attend and act a lady when most of her lessons in etiquette had faded over the years. She found herself trying to remember if it was considered rude to pick her teeth with the point of a flat silver knife, or if it was shrewd of a Lady to spit.

A tankard of rhodomel mead was placed in front of the little Lady, both her hands together could hardly wrap around the girth of the container. Sandor Clegane looked at her with a profound curiosity as it was the strongest drink the Laughing Thief offered, he had met few women that drank as much as the Whent girl, even fewer that could drink so much and hardly grow drunk. He accredited the skill to the wolf-blood that Starks were notorious for. She took a long sip and sat the large mug back down on the table. "Are you partaking in the tournament?" the Hound looked at her as if she had lost her mind, but responded with a gruff noise that sounded as if he were about to spit on the very idea.

Over the past four months Anya had learned that the Hound was a man of few words, but with her keen eye for observations she had learned more about him than he believed her to know. She took another long swig of the mead, it was sweet on her tongue but had a certain burn as it slid down her throat and pooled with warmth in her stomach. "Not even a single joust or mêlée?" It was a hard thing to believe that a man with his reputation would turn down the idea of knocking a few knights off their high horse, quite literally at that.

Well into the night and after two tankards of mead, it would have been hard to distinguish Anya from a peasant woman. She was laughing, cursing, and drinking with the best. The tavern was buzzing with laughter at the perverse and crude jokes that were being told. On a whim, Anya stood up on her chair, swaying with a crooked grin. "What does the sign on a defunct brothel say?" There was a pregnant pause as they all waited for the answer.

"Beat it. We're closed!" _The Laughing Thief_ was in an uproar of guffawing and cackling. Some patrons banged their mugs and steins on the tabletops, sloshing out ale and wine alike. Sandor Clegane was trying his damnedest not to laugh but the wine had been especially strong and he found himself laughing along with all the others at her stupid joke.

Her smile was enough to sober him, though, _the gods are cruel_ , he thought. They had fashioned the perfect woman and placed her out of his paws' reach. He drank two more glasses of the wine in hopes that it could erase her from his thoughts for the night.

Only a handful of people remained in the small tavern by the time the two had their share of drinks for the night. Anya was slumped forward on the table, half-awake and mumbling phrases that sounded more like a babe's babbling than a highborn lady. Sandor frowned, "Come on, little rose, let's get you safely back to the Hand's Tower," she groaned and stood on wobbly knees, her head was spinning. Somehow he had grown to find her drunkenness amusing.

In her inebriated state, each step was a mile. Outside the tavern walls, the Hound looked back in annoyance and swiftly turned to Anya, pulling her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. By the time he had reached the Tower of the Hand, the girl was asleep. The Northern men on duty let the two pass without question, it was the fourth time Lady Anya had been brought safely back to the tower by the Hound. He left her in the safety of her own bed, the lingering scent of roses followed him from the room.

-

"Just archery, Ned! I won't even enter the competition." The tournament would occur in a fortnight, already people were flooding into the capital city for the spectacle. Ned had caught Anya on all four of her attempts to enter the lists to compete, this made the fifth time.

"Then what's the purpose?" Ned was upset with her among other things, gossamer threads were all that was holding the Starks in King's Landing together. Anya lifted her chin, "To show that a woman can be just a good as a man! For fucks sake, Ned, let me do this. Three arrows for three targets. That's all I need."

Eddard Stark pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Even if I forbade participating it wouldn't stop you." She was determined to do something drastic, and would do it with or without his approval. He would rather her enter the lists for the archery contest than try to joust. "Three arrows, three targets," he conceded rising from behind a cluttered desk. "There something I've been meaning to give you since before we left Winterfell."

The object Ned pushed towards her was awkwardly swaddled in a bedsheet. Anya folded back the crème colored linen and nearly began to cry. It was a pale birch bow with a silk bowstring. She lifted the bow with reverence, tracing over the roses and vines that had been engraved into the grip. "It's beautiful." Anya had never seen a more finely crafted weapon in all her days. She set the gift down and turned to her brother, giving him no warning before she was hugging him. He rested his chin on the top of her head and suddenly they were children again at Winterfell.

"Whatever you're planning on doing, _win_." She smiled, Lord Rickard had been the first to tell her those words.

The tourney's archery contest was held two days before the joust would take place. Most of those who entered the lists had been squires and hedge knights, only a handful bore titles and noble names. Anya and Ned sat in the stands watching, though she was waiting as well. Sansa was seated next to Joffrey and Arya was with the Septa for her lessons despite her pleas to come see the contest.

A hundred had entered the lists and after eight rounds the number of competitors had been halved twice. The Whent girl was growing anxious as she watched arrows fly completely over the targets and others fall short, arrows that landed on target and some that had hit and then fell. Ten contestants became five and then five became three. Anya quelled her nerves with what was left in her wine glass _, it's time_.

Prince Jalabhar Xho, Ser Balon Swann, and Anguy of the Dornish Marches had come to be the final three competitors. Anya knew this was her chance, she could not let this opportunity pass. Her brother paid no mind when she stood and left the stands. He knew she had hidden her bow and three arrows behind a tree before the contest had even started, he had been the one to suggest it.

"I present your champion..." The sentence died and spectators bristled in their chairs as a cloaked figure appeared on the range. Silence fell over the tourney grounds as the hooded figure nocked and released the first of three arrows. It found the red center with ease while Jalabhar Xho's arrow was two rings away.

Ser Balon Swann's final arrow had just snubbed the top of the innermost circle, but Anya's second arrow found the exact center. There were whispers in the crowd as lords and ladies debated on who the mystery archer was. Lord Eddard Stark knew though nothing of his expression would dispel that knowledge. Joffrey's shrill opposition rang out over most while King Robert sat almost half asleep, letting chaos win over as he had lost interest eight rounds back.

Anya pulled back her hood and the black cloak fell to the dirt revealing her honeyed curls and petite frame that had been clothed in a grey and blue gown. People were shouting, outraged with her presence but she heard none of it. Sansa could hardly believe it when she realized it was her aunt causing the ruckus. Joffrey had made a cruel jape and laughed, but Sandor Clegane stood motionless behind the prince with the beginnings of a smile. _A bold little rose_.

Her third arrow was nocked _, relax your arm_ , Benjen used to tell her. _Breathe_. She exhaled _. Release_. The arrow floated through the air and embedded itself into the painted center target with a dull _thump._ It took a moment for the onlookers to notice she had split Anguy's, the champion's, arrow in two.

A hush fell over the crowd but erupted into a cacophony of voices. She turned to look at those who were shouting and those who were cheering. Ned had offered her an unreserved smile, a rarity since coming to King's Landing. The flaunted bow she gave before leaving was, by the very definition, mocking.

Ned was waiting for her near the tree where she had hidden her bow. "Have you accomplished what you set out to do?" He asked.

"That and more," she beamed.

"Don't linger here, Anya, go back to keep." He kissed her forehead and nudged her back toward the castle. She wanted to protest despite knowing that he was thinking of her well-being. Anya fled to the keep as Ned had advised her to do. By the time she neared the Hand's Tower, she was out of breath and half-mad with joy. It all faded in an instant.

Petyr Baelish came from behind one of the hall's pillars like he had been waiting for her to pass by. "You've created quite the buzz, Lady Anya," he tried to offer her his arm as a proper lord would have done but she stood rigid, unyielding to his advances.

"I grow weary of small talk, Lord Baelish. What is it that you want?" Her tone was flat, she wasn't sure what would make him realize that she did not like him or his company. Littlefinger took her hand into his, but she was quick to snatch it away from him. _Next time you presume to touch me I'll break your wrist_. Anya bit her tongue.

They began to walk, though Anya wanted to run, "A little more caution from you is all." The Whent girl could hardly believe that he had spoken to her in such a way. "This is a dangerous place and you're making enemies. If you are not planning on playing the game of thrones then I suggest you tread more lightly." As quick as he had come, Petyr Baelish vanished into the shadows of the Red Keep.

-

The summer air was stifling and the people she was forced to sit with made it all the worse. Of course, she did not mind being next to the Arya, Sansa, Ned, and even the old Septa from Winterfell, but it was the likes of Littlefinger and other nobles that made her skin crawl. She had never liked Petyr; she only tolerated him on Catelyn's behalf, the rest of the lot was just as treacherous. Taking a short leave between jousts, Anya slipped into the tents and wheelhouses that housed the champions and aspiring knights in search of a glass of Dornish red. She was somewhat relieved that the uproar she had caused had been near forgotten the moment Thoros of Myr had entered the mêlée with a flaming sword.

A profane amount of curses came from an enclosed marquee, she had recognized the voice instantly and shook her head. Two squire boys fumbled out and ran, fear on their young faces. Silent as a mouse, she slipped into the tent, hands clasped in front of her. Anya would have been the image of a perfect lady in the moment if it were not for the sly smile that came to her lips. "What's this?" Had it been anyone but her the Hound would have thrown them from the tent to have peace but there was a silent type of respect between them that words could not accurately describe.

Irritated, Sandor pulled at the strings and buckles of his vambraces, they had been polished for the occasion. Compared to the day prior Anya could see that his hair had been trimmed, as had the scruffy beard, if not for the scar he would have looked rather ordinary next to other knights and competitors. "That little shit wants me to participate for his entertainment," for some reason she struggled to meet his gaze, but reached out and tied the leather strips of the vambrace properly, tucking them into the rough tunic beneath a layer of mail.

Anya took the sage colored sash from her hair and ran her fingers over the soft material, nervously. It was satin, embroidered with pink roses and accented with the smallest of pearls that came from a dress many years ago. "What are you doing with that?" Sandor looked at the ribbon as if it were a snake coiled to strike.

"It's my favour," the Whent girl took a more confident step towards the Hound and stood on the tips of her toes so that she could reach the fastening of his gorget. Carefully she slipped the delicate ribbon beneath the worn leather but paused when he took both her wrists into a single hand and stepped back, looking for some sort of trick to flash across her fair features. "I know what it is, girl. Why are you giving it to me?" The smile that spread across her rose colored lips only confused him and with a gruff noise from the back of his throat he released her hands.

"Just accept the damn thing, Sandor," Anya laughed and tied the ribbon off into a knot, it was a blunt contrast to the black and steel colors of his armor and would go unnoticed by few. She stepped back, admiring her work and turned back in the direction of the stands, turning back with a flush of color on her cheeks when her eyes met the Hound's.

Taking her place next to Sansa and Arya, she folded her hands in her lap and politely engaged in a quick conversation with a lady from Highgarden who had traveled in Ser Loras's company. "Where have you been?" Ned gave her a look, one that told her there was no point in trying to lie of her whereabouts or he would see right through it like so many times in their younger days.

"Getting some fresh air, being surrounded by pompous aristocrats isn't exactly what I call fun anymore, brother," Ned looked at Anya, scolding her almost when the names of the next two competitors were announced. Ser Thomos Frosher of Maidenpool was to ride against the Hound, he was elegantly decorated in deep burgundies and sage greens with silver and bronze armor. An olive tree was painted on a dented shield, the horse he rode was a beautiful silver that was antsy to begin.

Sandor sat astride Stranger with his snarling dog head helm. Sansa gripped her aunt's arm and looked at her with wide eyes as she noticed what all the other ladies were whispering about. A pale green sash on the Hound's armor, someone had dared to give their favour to the disfigured man. "Aunt Anya! You gave the Hound your favour!"

She could feel the eyes of Eddard Stark on her, burning like coals into her skin, but she elected to ignore him and Arya's look of distaste as well. One tilt had passed and neither men were unhorsed, though the lances had shattered against shields, the second run had resulted in the same as the first. On the third tilt, Anya had moved to the edge of her seat, wringing her hands together in anticipation. The beat of iron shoes on loose sand could be felt in every spectators' hearts when both men lowered their lance to strike time stood still or perhaps it only moved very slowly. The Maidenpool knight had not struck Sandor, but the Hound's lance had caught at just the right angle and the young knight tumbled from the saddle but stood unharmed.

The audience had only broken out into mediocre applause as the Hound was announced as a champion. Anya clapped in a polite manner she was taught to do at tournaments, remembering Lord Walter's words g _irls should be an ornament to the eyes, not an ache in the ear_. Yet still an unrefined smile broke out across her face when a squire boy gave Sandor a single red rose to give to the lady of his choosing. For a moment, he seemed to freeze in place on the back of Stranger. Without a word, he rode over to the stands where Anya and her nieces sat and in his own chivalrous way he tossed the rose into Anya's lap and rode away to the sound of her delicate laughter.


	13. Eleven

After the death of Ser Hugh of the Vale, Sansa was not so excited to attend another day of the tourney but had done so anyway. Anya had the same ill-feeling that there would be another calamity or casualty as Ser Gregor Clegane was still competing in the lists. Arya had asked her to come meet her dancing master and she was beginning to wish she had gone with the young girl as the first jousts between vassal knights of the lesser houses commenced.

It was boring affair filled with clumsy mistakes that made each round last longer than it should have. Each time a lance broke Anya winced, remembering the sight of Ser Hugh lying on the ground not even ten feet away. A splintered lance driven into his throat, blood pulsed from his neck and mouth, each surge weaker than the last. Sansa had gone pale. No one had rushed to the young knight's aid. It must have been shock that stalled anyone from taking action and as a result, a great deal of people simply watched as he died, including her.

"Jory's competing?" He had been the last person Anya had expected to see ride forth. A direwolf was etched onto the silver breastplate and unlike the other jousters. Jory's armor was minimal, he wore only enough for the protection and support of his upper body. She wished he would wear a full suit in the wake of what had happened to Ser Hugh. Jory Cassel rode forth with a pair of blue roses, the first he gave to Sansa, the second went to Anya. "My ladies."

Jory had unhorsed Horas Redwyne and one of the Freys that was participating. Lothor Brune had been the competitor to truly challenge him, after three tilts the hedge knight had won. And so came the final jousts of the tournament. Sandor had bested Lord Renly and Ser Jaime prior in the day and would face either his brother or Ser Loras in the final tilt.

The royal herald made a grand gesture to one end of the jousting field where a large man in black armor sat astride a black horse. "Ser Gregor Clegane." The Mountain was a behemoth of a man, his destrier appeared nothing but a pony between his legs. Rumors had claimed that he could wield a six-foot two-handed greatsword with a single hand, upon seeing the man she had no doubt it was true.

"The Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras Tyrell," the herald called and applause broke out among the attendants of noble and low birth. Loras Tyrell wore armor wrought with jeweled flowers and a cape of woven roses. Already he was a renowned knight, celebrated throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Not to mention he was exceptionally handsome, Sansa was already infatuated at first glance. The knight rode up to where Sansa sat and presented a red rose to her. "Thank you, Ser Loras." She chirped like a trained songbird, remembering her courtesies.

Anya's eyes must have been deceiving her, playing her for an utter fool in the afternoon sun. The heat had obviously done something to her mind and every other guest in attendance as well. The Mountain had been unhorsed by Ser Loras Tyrell on the first tilt. Gregor Clegane had been defeated as if he were a clumsy squire boy.

The applause of the crowd broke into shocked gasps and screams when the Mountain called for his sword and took the head off his horse with a single swing. Sansa gripped her father's arm, fearing for her Knight of Flowers as the Mountain approached him. Had Loras lost his jousting shield there would have been blood, he blocked two blows with the small shield while on his back. "Leave him be!"

Anya dug her nails into her knees, her heart beat so loudly there was no doubt in her mind that everyone in King's Landing would have heard it. "Sandor," she breathed his name but Ned and Sansa had heard her. He had drawn his own sword, blocking a third strike to the Knight of Flowers. Loras Tyrell scuttled backward.

The Mountain paused for only a moment to look at his brother before stepping forward and swinging the greatsword with no reservation. Despite the difference in size, the brothers were evenly matched. Gregor's rage had befuddled his mind and made his swings sloppy, that is where Sandor found his advantage. Each time their swords rang against one another's Anya winced and tried willing herself to look away, only she couldn't. The king stood at last.

"STOP THIS MADNESS," he boomed, "IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!"

The Hound went to one knee and Ser Gregor's blow cut air, and at last he came to what little sense he had. He dropped his sword and glared at Robert, surrounded by his Kingsguard and a dozen other knights and guardsmen. Wordlessly, the Mountain turned and strode off, shoving past Barristan Selmy. "Let him go," Robert said, and as quickly as that, it was over.

Anya's heart was racing, ten spots of blood soaked through the fabric of her dress where her nails had broken the skin of her knees. A few moments later Ser Loras Tyrell walked back onto the field said to Sandor Clegane, "I owe you my life. The day is yours, ser."

"I am no ser," the Hound replied, but he took the victory, and the champion's purse, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, the love of the commons. They cheered him as he left the lists to return to his pavilion.

Anya stood to leave but Ned stopped her, his raised brow alone asked where she was going. "I've seen enough," the tightness of her throat made it hard to speak. She passed House Swann and House Royace's tents, the wheelhouses of some knights, and the modest tents of hedge knights. House Tyrell's tent was green and gold with a rose flag flying from the tallest support beam. Squire boys were helping the Knight of Flowers from his armor.

He looked up at her sudden entrance, recognizing her immediately. Anya picked up the goblet of wine that had been poured and passed it him, "Are you hurt Ser Loras?" She asked.

Loras shook his head, "Shaken is all, my Lady. I owe the Hound my life." They shared only a handful more words before she excused herself.

She left the tent but had stepped on some man's poor foot. Anya saw that it was Robert's brother, no doubt he would wish to check on the Knight of Flowers as he had been a page and squire. "Lord Renly, I apologize for my gaucherie," she told him as it was the proper thing to do.

He took her hand, "No harm done, Lady Anya." Lord Renly placed and kiss to her knuckles and entered the Tyrell tent.

Anya made her way through the pavilions that belonged to champions and knights. Stopping occasionally to speak with those who were outside of their tents. She had found that Horas Redwyne was a queer boy with a sense of humor so lewd it would have made the most experienced of whore flush. Lothor Brune was another competitor she had spoken with on her way back to the grand pavilion, he had been the one to defeat Jory only after a judgment by Robert, the man was older than Ned by a couple of years and though stoic was kind with a common and honest face.

The feast would start soon and on this night her stomach rumbled with hunger. She contemplated catching up with Sandor, Jaime, and Joffrey who were steps ahead of her. Her appetite had been lost after seeing two brothers fight each other with such hatred earlier in the day but had come back with a vengeance.

Ser Gregor Clegane was trailing behind her, the bitterness of defeat had left a foul taste in his mouth that only a woman and wine could take away. The Whent girl was the first one he had seen after exiting House Clegane's tent and now the poor girl was the one he intended on having. "Girl!" She froze when the gruff voice of the Mountain called out but when Sandor heard his brother's voice he turned back, leaving Joffrey with the protection of Jaime Lannister and Preston Greenfield.

Anya took a handful of quick steps and gripped the Hound's arm. Even if her expression seemed calm her eyes told the truth of her fear. He knocked her feet from underneath her, tossed her over his shoulder and gave her arse a light smack. Gregor had not seen her noble and fair face, if she played the Hound's lowly whore for only a few minutes it could very well save her life. "Play along, little Lady," the Hound rasped. She hardly had time to notice his armor had been replaced by a red woolen tunic with a leather dog's head sewn on the breast.

He veered away from the tents, away from his brother and into the forest tree line. The festivities, however, were still visible and the roars of laughter and chatter from the banquet pavilion could easily be heard. Sandor pinned her weight against a tree, she was lighter than a damned feather in his arms. One ungentle touch and she would bruise, break even. Anya had never been able to look him directly in the eyes as she was doing now, under the moonlight his eyes were a warm brown. When she slid a fraction of an inch her legs wrapped around the Hound's waist on instinct and his hands slipped to her hips to keep her from falling.

She told herself it was for the charade when she slipped an arm around his neck so that her hand was splayed across his shoulder. Her breathing was erratic and as her chest heaved, Sandor could feel her breasts brushing against his chest with each rise and fall. The sight and smell of her were enough to drive him mad with need and want. He cursed her for making him feel such things. He cursed Anya Stark almost every day since he had first laid eyes on her.

Her lips parted and moved but he did hear the words she spoke. "I thank you for saving me from him," her heart was racing beneath the constricting layers of her gown. The Hound let out odd noise that truly made him sound like a dog, though he did manage a gruff 'hmph'.

When Anya was let down to stand on her own she almost laughed at her disheveled appearance. Pieces of tree bark clung to her hair, leaves crowned her head, the fine samite gown was wrinkled with the bodice and skirts twisted. If anyone were to see her in such a state the rumors would ruin her reputation, Ned would care more about the gossip than she would. "Would you take me back to my chambers?" Her voice shook and Sandor obliged, this time offering her the crook of his arm.

He saw her safely to her chambers and stopped one of her maids in the hall, the poor girl was struck with fear at the sight of him. "Lady Anya will be wanting her supper delivered here tonight, girl, and see that you get her a few extra cherry tarts." Anya could hear him speaking to Rana and she thought about opening her door to thank him once more but as soon as he mentioned the cherry tarts her heart stopped. She hadn't remembered explicitly telling the Hound that cherry tarts were her favorite sweet yet somehow from a previous feast or distant conversation he had remembered. The seeds of fondness were planted within her heart at that moment. 

-

Arya sat on the edge of Anya's bed, her wide Stark grey eyes followed the chambermaids around the room. Today her aunt was wearing a dress of deep blue cambresine, Arya had always thought any shade of blue was befitting for Anya. It made her hair look like spun gold and brought out the fairness of her skin. She would be a proper lady today, as opposed to the day prior when she wore breeches and a tunic to practice in one of the courtyards with bow and sword. "Would you like to come and meet my dancing master?" The Stark girl swung her legs impatiently as a girl about Sansa's age began braiding Anya's hair.

The Whent girl sighed, "Another day, little wolf, I promised to take your sister into the market today for a new pair of shoes." In the mirror, Anya could see Arya's crestfallen expression become overtaken by irritation, "But Sansa already has three pairs of shoes that she never wears!"

"Indeed she does, it was my folly that caused this outing. Joffrey was about to request her presence for the day and I beat him to it." With a wave, Anya excused her maid and finished the braid herself, tying it off with a piece of blue silk that matched the sleeves of her dress.

Arya's arms were crossed, her nose scrunched up, "And will the Hound be with you?" She hated to be anywhere near the burnt man since what had occurred on the Kingsroad, she rarely wanted to be near her sister as of late either. The rift between the two sisters was growing larger no matter how she and Ned tried to remedy it.

"What does it matter if he is?" She inquired of the young Stark.

Arya's stubbornness was shining through. Needle was grasped in her hands, still sheathed. Anya imagined that her niece would love nothing more than to stick the blade through his eye and out the back of his skull. "He killed Mycah. He's a horrible person and I wish he were dead," she declared.

"Arya! Do not speak like that! He may not be lord or a knight, but he is loyal and honest. The queen had commanded him to go after your friend, what right had he to refuse her orders?" Her words were wind, though. Anya knew Arya to be stubborn and this would be no different, she had her own opinion of the Hound and nothing was likely to change it. "You'll find that whenever he doesn't have someone pulling his strings like a puppet that he is not an awful person, rough around the edges surely, but not awful."

Anya shuffled through the things piled into her vanity tray and picked out a black hair comb made from the shell of a tortoise, "And yes, he will be accompanying us. Joffrey has ordered him to keep his ladylove safe." The piece slipped easily into her hair but didn't suit the rest of her attire, she placed the hair comb aside and sat next to Arya. "How about this evening you show me what your dancing master has taught you?" That seemed to remedy what little anger Arya had directed at her aunt. With a kiss on the forehead, she nudged her niece toward the door, knowing that her lesson would begin shortly. "Run along."

Sansa opened her chamber doors wearing a pale pink samite gown with a golden belt, her auburn hair done in a style that mimicked one of Cersei's elaborate styles. She was turning into as southern lady. "You look lovely, Sansa." Her smile was oddly bashful. Together they had broken their fast on sun-ripened raspberries, a sweet bread glazed with honey, and fresh pressed apple juice. Ned had joined them at the last minute, he would be needed at the small council meeting shortly.

Joffrey was waiting with the Hound at his side to see his betrothed off for the morning. Anya turned her gaze elsewhere as the prince gave Sansa a short kiss upon the lips and bid her a safe return to the keep for dinner.

"Sandor," he looked down at Anya when she spoke his name expecting to hear an order or something of those lines but she had said his name in greeting.

The Hound was a looming presence behind Sansa and her aunt, the man followed them with the diligence of a shadow. They had only just left the Keep's gates when Sansa looked back, offering a sweet smile and gentle words to her prince's sworn sword. "You were very brave to save Ser Loras from your brother at the tourney," Sansa spoke unsurely, her voice quavering.

Anya wondered what frightened her niece the most about Sandor Clegane. Was it his face? Or his cold demeanor? Maybe it was due to the fact that she had only ever been near him when Joffrey was present and then he was not a man, but a dog.

"Spare me your false courtesies, girl." Anya frowned at his brashness and Sansa turned red with discomfiture.

The people of the city had begun to line the streets, children smiled and waved at Sansa, but she only looked ahead blankly. Women with their suckling babes stepped forward in hopes that Sansa would bless their children as a queen would have done, she walked past them as well. Anya frowned and took her niece's arm, Sandor trailed hardly even a foot behind them, and one of his hands always hovered over a dagger. "It will be good to speak with these people. Earning their love will help ensure you and Joffrey have a long reign. These people are not your enemies."

Sansa scrunched up her nose, "But they smell." It was true enough, most did smell, but it was the stench of the city itself that made the people smell so horrid. _Smoke, sweat, and shit_. _Especially shit_. The true pity was in the fact that a city the size of King's Landing had never known what it was like to have proper drainage and functioning sewers outside of the Keep. Sansa looked petrified of the idea that she would need to interact with the lowborn of King's Landing.

"Your aunt is right," the Hound added in his gruff tone, though even his input did not seem to convince the girl. "Perhaps another day," Anya suggested. The trio continued on their way through the crowded streets.

It was on Sowbelly Row that they found a cordwainer's store next to a tanner's shop. The owner had a selection of shoes already made, most were leather boots for men though among them was a few shoes meant for young ladies. All five pairs available had been made in the same size and style, only the colors differed.

Sansa chose the pair of grey slippers with silver embroidery, a subtle touch that would remind her of her own house even whilst surrounded by lions. She had been delighted when the shoes had fit perfectly onto her feet. The shopkeeper had insisted that the future queen take them, free of charge and while the young girl clutched the simple shoes to her chest in thanks, Anya placed a handful, perhaps fifteen or so, cooper stars on the counter before leaving.

They had stopped to look in three dress shops and even a jeweler's story as a silver brooch in the form of a weirwood tree with rubies as leaves had caught both Anya and Sansa's attention. Now, however, they were coming on the market. Stalls lined the streets and alleyways. Silks, fruits, steel, and wine were amongst some of the items being bought and exchanged.

A Volantene vendor had set up his stall with woven baskets of oranges, lemons, and limes displayed next to jars of spices and sheets of samite. "Oranges!" The Whent girl exclaimed eyes wide with awe, "I haven't had oranges since I was a little girl at H-," Anya paused mid-sentence upon realizing what she was about to say, Harrenhal.

Oranges had been a rare treat when she was a child and once in the North there was hardly ever any fruits asides from apples and berry bushes that could withstand the cold. It seemed absurd that the sight of an orange could spark such elation in her.

The Hound and the little bird followed Anya through the maze of people and street carts but soon lost her to the crowd. By the time Sandor had spotted her again she was carrying two canvas sacks filled with the fruit.

"You shouldn't run off like that," Sandor lambasted her, a flush of color came to her cheeks that made Sansa giggle. The girl had never seen her aunt blush in such a manner. He took the sacks from her and continued to follow both Sansa and Anya through the crowded market square.


	14. Twelve

She hoped reading would be the answer to her restlessness but she couldn't bear to sit still long enough to read more than a page at a time. The rain had been persistent for three days. She couldn’t train or take strolls through the gardens without becoming soaked to the bone and being sick was the last thing Anya wanted. Feeling trapped within the towers of the Red Keep was not a something Anya Whent enjoyed. She had to do _something_ or else be driven mad.

At Winterfell, on nights she could not sleep Anya would go to the kitchens and make a batch of honey cakes. Baking seemed to be a way of relaxing for the girl ever since she had disguised herself as a kitchen maid. Often times she would be found by Benjen or Ned in the early morning hours as they tried to sneak off with extra rations of bacon. On those mornings they would see their sister back to her chambers and sneak off with honey cakes instead. She would scold them for taking her sweets every time but it never stopped them.

Anya protected the flame of her candle from the wind and rain under her cloak as she moved across the courtyard in the darkness. The vast network of preparation and cooking chambers were dark and cold. _The kitchen is the heart of the castle, no matter the time the stove will always be hot and fires lit_. Maycey, Winterfell’s head cook, had been the one to tell a young Anya those words. If the kitchen was truly the heart of the castle then the Red Keep was dead, or heartless, she could not tell which it was yet.

Having the entire kitchen to herself was more than she could have hoped for. It took longer than she had expected to find all the ingredients she would need to make the sweet treats. She set a fire going in the bread oven and began with a batch of honey cakes. She would try to save some for Ned and Arya but could make no promises. Once she had eaten a whole plate just to spite her brothers but went the rest of the day with a terrible tummy ache, the maester had ended up giving her a special tea that made her retch and just like that the discomfort was gone.

Lost in bittersweet memories, the Whent girl did not even take notice of the maid until she spoke. "'M'lady! What are you doing down here at this hour?" Anya froze elbow deep in flour when a scullery maid came into the kitchen with a pillar candle in a holder made of cast iron. "You should have sent word if you wished for a snack,” the young girl scolded in the gentlest manner possible as to not upset her.

The Whent girl looked down at her hands and the flour that had steadily crept up her arms, dusting the surrounding counter surface, "When I can't sleep I like to bake," she almost sounded ashamed of the admission.

"What are you making, m'lady?" The maid questioned.

"Lemon and honey cakes," she replied. The maid, who Anya had learned was named Katia, fell in at her side and wordlessly began helping, creaming butter and sugar together. They worked in harmony speaking of food and matters of the heart. As the sky began to shift from black to blue with the sun rising on the horizon, the two batches of sweet cakes had only just come from the oven when more maids began pouring into the kitchens to prepare morning meals.

The queen and her children were breaking fast together. Outside the queen’s solar, the Hound stood next to Arys Oakheart though when called upon by the crown prince he obeyed. "Dog, go and fetch Sansa's aunt, my lady mother wishes to see her." Sandor left in search of Anya without a word.

Her chambers were empty as was the library. Jory Cassel had seen no sign of her since the previous evening when they shared supper. It wasn't until Septa Mordane mentioned her affinity for baking that he went to the kitchens. The queen did not like to be kept waiting.

Anya was in the kitchens, asleep in a nook away from the bustling workers with a tray of lemon and honey cakes next to her. Flour coated her plain dress and made patches of her hair look grey instead of gold.

Sandor knelt next to her and with a tremulous hand, he pushed honeyed curls away from her eyes and shook her shoulder. She groaned and reluctantly opened her eyes. After a moment she relented to the fact that she had been summoned to see someone of importance as it was the Hound who had been sent to fetch her. Anya extended her hand, he gripped onto her forearm and pulled her onto her feet. "You're in no state to see the queen, little rose." If anything she looked to be a peasant girl trying to sneak away with a treat.

"Frankly, I don’t give a damn what I look like, Sandor. I don’t live to impress the bitch queen." He snorted at her boldness and gathered that she wasn't a morning person in the slightest. "Honey cake?" She held up the plate of sweets, not daring to give away the lemon cakes as frivolously as they were to be Sansa's.

An oddity occurred when Sandor reached to take one of the sweet cakes, he thought of his own sister. Once the two of them had been happy children, she was only a year younger and loved to get under the cooks’ feet when preparing meals. She had made a strawberry tart and was immensely proud it had not burned. When she had offered Sandor a slice he had said no and made some cruel jape that made his sister cry. The septa scolded him and told him to apologize, he did so and ended up eating half the tart himself. He didn’t believe those memories could exist anymore.

It was yet another thing he hated Anya Whent for.

She walked at Sandor's side in her soiled dress eating honey cakes. By the time they had reached the queen's solar the plate of sticky treats had been properly disposed of.

Cersei glanced up from her piece of parchment, dipped a quill back into the inkpot and finished the line she had been writing. At first glance the queen had overlooked the remnants of Whent girl's late night baking escapade, mistaking it for another of the rags from the north which the girl claimed to be a dress. Distaste fell over the queen's sharp features. "Lady Anya, I was hoping that we may share a lunch together in the gardens but it seems you're," Cersei stood as to flaunt the crimson samite gown that had not a single thread or stitch out of place, "… _preoccupied_."

Anya lowered her gaze to where her toes peeked out from beneath the skirt of her dress, "Forgive me for my appearance. I could not sleep last night and I enjoy baking." In an instant, she became a proper lady, chirping the words that a septa had once taught her. The queen's frown deepened but was softened by a poor attempt at sympathy, "Even I have sleepless nights. I'm sure Grand Maester Pycelle would give you some sweetmilk to help you sleep. Perhaps we may lunch on the morrow."

Anya gave a taut smile. Cersei waved her away and returned to the piece of parchment on her desk, "On the morrow then," Anya accepted the queen's invitation; she was in no position to refuse.

Anya took the opportunity to spend time with Arya. The girl was still within her chambers though dressed for the day. Needle was in her hand when Anya entered unannounced. Arya froze, fearing it to be the Septa or her father. Her shoulders immediately relaxed at seeing it was only her aunt. "There will be time to practice with Needle, but for now, I wish to see how you dance." A large grin stretched across her niece's face as she followed her down to an open courtyard.

She tossed a wooden sword to Arya with no warning, but the girl caught it with ease as Syrio Forel had taught her to do. Arya's movements were fluid and quick where Anya moved like a stubborn knight in comparison. They each taught one another something new without even realizing it. Strength and age were the Whent girl's weapons against Arya, but she had youth and agility. Wood _clanked_ together in continuous parries and strikes. Unbeknownst to them both Ned and Jory stood at a distance watching.

Midday had come and gone before the duo ceased their swordplay and took a seat on a stone bench erected beneath an alder tree. "Your footwork has improved," Arya grinned but within seconds it had faded and melancholy crept its way onto her face.

"Did your mother approve of you practicing with a bow and sword?" _My birth mother hated that I found more joy in fighting than dancing. Lyarra never objected but a mother always wishes to have her little princesses to spoil and pamper_. "Yes, but Lord Rickard and she came to an agreement that so long as I still did my studies I could practice and play with my brothers and Jory." _Please don't make me tell you anymore lies, Arya_.

All at once Anya remembered a Targaryen queen. "Have you ever heard of Visenya Targaryen?" Arya shook her head. She read when it was expected of her. Anya, however, had read what must have been thousands of books over the span of her life for lessons and leisure. "I read about her in the War of Conquest and placed her on a pedestal because I wanted to become like her."

Shella Whent had been thoroughly concerned when her daughter came to idolize the Targaryen Queen. _Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin and perhaps I was born mad to look up to such a cold and unforgiving woman_. "She was a warrior, more comfortable in ringmail than in silk. Her dragon was Vhagar and her Valyrian sword was Dark Sister," Anya explained, interest had instantly sparked in Arya's grey eyes. "My favorite tale is the Field of Fire when Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya unleashed their dragons. They were victorious, of course, though Visenya was struck in the shoulder with an arrow. If the accounts and tales are written truly she was hardly phased by the wound and it simply became another scar. Not only was she a warrior but a mother as well, and knew all the types of pain there is to know, yet she endured."

-

After bathing and supping together on a light meal of assorted cheeses, fruits, and bread, Anya led Arya to her chambers. The Whent girl turned to retire to her own chambers but Arya pulled on her arm, leaving her no choice but to turn back. "Aunt Anya, why would anyone want to kill my father?"

Arya was frowning and her aunt was shocked into silence at the abruptness of such a question. "I was down in the dungeon, chasing a cat and I heard two men talking. ‘If one hand can die, why not a second?' No one's going to hurt him, right? King Robert will protect him, won't he?" _Oh Ned, what have you done to anger the players of this cruel game?_

"He has Jory and a host of his most trustworthy men here, they won't let anyone harm your father, or you." Anya pushed back the girl's damp hair and saw a piece of herself within Arya Stark.

"You're lying, aren't you?" _Am I that terrible of a liar?_ The Whent girl bit down on her bottom lip, contemplating on the right thing to say. "This is a dangerous place, Arya, you must realize that. We all must tread carefully. Ned's men will lay down their lives for him if need be and I'll keep you safe." She kissed the Stark girl’s forehead but it was a poor replacement for the comfort of a mother.

"Winter is coming," Arya whispered. _Fly by night_ , Anya's mind said in response.

That night Anya had found herself on the Street of Steel. She had already been to three smiths but even with her name and coin they wouldn't forge what she wished to purchase. The only logical conclusion to their refusal of her business was because she was a woman requesting a set of armor. The first had laughed, the second had thought it a mockery of his work, and the third smith had laughed as well but said he would forge a set of armor only if she sucked his cock. She bloodied his nose with a single blow.

She had all but given up hope until coming upon a shop with two stone knights armored in red suits in the shapes of a griffin and a unicorn that guarded the entrance. Anya slammed the iron knocker on the pale wooden door. One the other side she heard shuffling, latches and locks being undone. A boy of Robb’s age stood before her, he was tall with pitch colored hair and eyes bluer than Catelyn’s. “Are you the smith?"

It took several long seconds for him to respond, "No, m'lady. My name’s Gendry. I'm Master Mott's apprentice."

"Is it too late for me to speak with him?" He shook his head and motioned her into the lofty two-story home that towered over everything else on the Street of Steel. Gendry led her up a flight of stairs to the solar. On three walls there were shelves with books and ledgers, on the fourth was numerous swords, axes, and warhammers proudly displaying excellent craftsmanship.

The smith had named himself Tobho Mott, the city's master armorer. They spoke over a glass of wine with his apprentice standing near the door. She laid out her demands. It would need to offer protection and be light and maneuverable as to allow her to shoot a bow. Perhaps most importantly, though, it would need to blend into the armor of men. The smith fiddled with a large sapphire hung around his neck by a silver chain. “Can you do what I ask of you?” Anya tipped up the remaining wine.

“Aye," Mott nodded, "I’ll be able to forge you a set of armor, Lady Stark.”

Both he and Gendry led her back down the stairs and to the exit. “Thank you.” She said again. Anya paid him half of the predicted cost and pulled her hood up. A gust of cold north wind swept pass her in the street, lifting up the cloak's hood and making her eyes water. She smiled at the reminder of her home yet the reality of her surroundings was quick to chase away the longing memories. The scent of sweat, smoke, shit and even treachery was all she could make out but soon the snow and ice would come and southern lords would freeze in their castles once more.

 _Winter is coming_. 


	15. Thirteen

The sun was blistering but under a shaded canopy in the gardens, it felt nice enough to read. From the Red Keep's vast collection of books, she had chosen a detailed recollection of the history of Westeros before the War of Conquest. The title had worn off, some pages were ripped, the ink was fading, and there was no sign of the author's signature anywhere within the text; she treated the book with the utmost reverence recognizing that it was likely the only one in the realm. _The Children of the Forest were the original inhabitants of Westeros; they're hard to describe — human-like but not fully human. This was thousands and thousands of years ago. Then came the First Men._

Jaime Lannister had come to a stop in front of Anya. He wore the gilded armor of the Kingsguard, a crisp white cloak dusting along the stone though by the end of the day it would be tainted. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. The kingslayer watched her as she placed a strip of fabric in the book to mark the page and couldn't help but think of how her actions resembled his brother's. "Ser Jaime," she greeted, clearly annoyed by the disruption his presence had caused.

"Lady Anya, you're beginning to look like a southern lady." No doubt he was looking at the sendal teal-green dress with its heavily embroidered neckline and long flowing sleeves of some diaphanous fabric she could not name. "I've heard you're fond of dogs?" Anya opened her mouth to reply but the kingslayer continued, "May I suggest visiting the kennels? There's a new litter of pups. Or perhaps it's a different kind of dog you're fond of." Anya's brows furrowed, it was taking every ounce of her control not to strike Jaime Lannister for such a remark. She went to speak but he took a step back and bowed contemptuously, "Pardon me, my lady, duty calls." Then he was gone.

Anya hugged the old book to her chest as she left the gardens in a graceful fury. _By the gods, I need to punch something_. She returned the book to the library and set off to some secluded place to calm her flaring temper. Her distress, however, had not gone unnoticed. Jory Cassel had been conversing with a member of the City Watch when he saw her. He came to her side with concern on his face. "My lady?"

She jumped, alarmed at his sudden manifestation. "Jory!" The panic subsided as did her anger, "Take a walk with me?" It was a question yet he responded as if it had been a command. He offered the Whent girl the crook of his arm and she looped her arm through his. They had passed through the gardens in silence and soon reached a pier that jutted into the Narrow Sea.

"Is something wrong?" Jory asked. He placed his hand over her own, only then did she notice he had removed the leather gloves he was so keen on wearing while on duty. Anya shook her head, "No, I just needed some fresh air is all," of course that had been a lie. There were a hundred things wrong at any given moment in this hellish city, almost all of them could be solved by going north. "I don't like it here." Jory squeezed her hand. _I want to go home_.

She stole him away from the Red Keep, below its towering red walls to the rocky shoreline that turned into a sandy cove, secluded from the world. Unlike the rest of King's Landing, this sanctuary was unpolluted. Jory scanned the horizon before him was open water. Only a handful of ships could be seen leagues from shore. Anya flopped down onto the sand rather ungracefully, Jory seated himself next to her.

The two stared out at the sea and listened to the gentle breaking of waves against the shore. The sea was the best place. It was what she loved most in this hellish city. It was a feeling of freedom like no other, and yet a feeling of communion with all the other places and creatures the water touched. The simple fact that somewhere as pure as this little cove could exist in the cesspit of King's Landing was astonishing. "How did you find this place?"

Anya pulled her sandals off and burrowed her toes into the sand, "By chance. I like reading here in the early morning," she replied in a hushed tone.

"After you train or before?" She flushed realizing that Jory had watched her train. For some odd reason it felt strange to know he had watched her, even though they had trained together as children. "After" she smiled, standing. Anya pulled the pins from her hair causing honey curls to cascade down her back. Jory looked at her oddly before he realized she was loosening the strings of her bodice.

"What are you doing?" Jory stood, wiping off the sand that stuck to the stitching of his leather doublet and pants. "Lady Anya?" His cheeks had already gone red before the loose gown had fallen from her shoulders, leaving her in small clothes with a thin white chemise.

The spray of breaking waves kissed her cheeks and the surf tickled her toes before she dared to stroll further into the water. Honeyed curls stuck to her damp neck and face as she looked back over her shoulder at Jory. "Swimming. Are you just going to stand there?" Amusement and challenge were laced in her tone.

"We're not children anymore, my lady," childhood had been years ago and was cut short by Robert's Rebellion, even Benjen could not live out his remaining days of youth when Ned went to fight. Anya wanted to feel that freedom and carelessness again, she longed for it. Sansa and Arya would be with Septa Mordane and Ned with the small council, time had not presented a better opportunity. They could truly be young again.

"No one is here to see, Jory." She fell into the water's embrace. It was cool but not cold like the rivers and lakes of the North. Theon had fallen into a river while he was still a child, not even the Drowned God could have swum against the rushing current. Anya had gone after him and the cold cut through her like a thousand knives and it had burned.

The waves were calm, the current steady, and the sun warm. Having almost forgotten Jory on the small beach, his presence next to her was startling. Anya circled around him, treading water as it was over her head. "Do you remember the summer it was abnormally warm and we'd all go the Acorn Water?" He nodded but was still caught off guard when she bounded onto his shoulders to push him below. Jory pulled her under the water by her arm. She broke the surface spluttering and shoved his shoulder, laughing.

For a time they were children again, careless and free. The water had a way of washing away the woes of life. Her toes just touched the sand but Jory held her up and absently she laid her head on his shoulder while the waves pushed and pulled against them.

"Forgive me for what I'm about to do, Jory." His eyes widened right before her lips brushed over his. She only wanted to try it one more time, to see if age had somehow made it feel right. Jory clutched her hips, the sopping material of her shift was balled in his fists. Anya could feel the scar just below his eye beneath her fingertips. Kissing him felt good but not right. Her forehead rested on his as the color of shame overtook her cheeks. "Anya," he breathed.

"Is that what I have to do so you'll say my name?" She laughed despite how her bottom lip trembled.

Jory pushed back the hair that clung to her cheek, running his thumb over her jawline affectionately. "I think we are only meant to be friends," his breathy words still caressed her lips.

Anya put an inch more of distance between them, she glanced at his shoulders where her hands still lay. "I must agree with you," she conceded. _Not lovers, only friends_.

"If I may be so bold, you've gotten better at kissing," Jory bit down on his lip to stop a large grin from overtaking his features.

"Is that so?" She tried to appear shocked, offended even, but he spoke truly. Their first kiss had been all teeth and tongue and clumsy. The second had been sweeter but no less practiced as Jory bit her lip in their haste. In an instant, any awkwardness was gone and they were each laughing as old friends did. She waded toward the shore with Jory trailing behind her.

Her crème colored shift had gone near transparent but the thin material would be quick to dry in the wind, Jory's woolen smallclothes still dripped water, though. It would be a chore to make herself presentable for being seen in the Keep, even if it was just to walk back to the Hand's Tower. After she had dressed and righted her hair once more she went to Jory and began tying the laces of his leather doublet as he had already donned an undershirt and mail shirt once more.

"Do you remember what my favorite sweet is?" Anya couldn't say why she had suddenly asked him. A piece of her mind said it was because she hadn't seen Sandor in what must have been a fortnight and as absurd as it seemed, she missed their late night tavern visits.

"Honey cakes?" Jory furrowed his brows for a moment, "Or is it apple roses?" He hadn't sounded sure of either response.

Anya felt her heart drop with disenchantment, "Cherry tarts are my favorite." It was wrong of her to compare Jory to him. She knew it was wrong. She had known Jory for nine-and-ten years. They had played, hunted, and trained together yet in all that time he never learned the little things about her as Benjen had. And then along came Sandor Clegane though, with his formidable reputation and baleful look that frightened many, and somehow he already knew her in only a matter of months.

-

Anya and Ned walked at each other's sides, his presence was required at the small council and she had seen it as an opportunity to leave the watchful eye of Jory Cassel since he had caught her sneaking out of her room to head to the cellars two nights prior.

Before she could deliver her brother to the room and take her leave the queen had stepped out from behind a pillar and motioned that Lord Stark's presence was not required for the occasion, "Lady Stark, would you be so kind as to walk with me?" Queen Cersei Lannister wore her hair down in golden curls, those that fell before her fair face were pinned back. Anya lowered her head out of respect, "Of course, your grace." The Whent girl went alongside the queen, the woman she was overly suspicious of and had begun to hate from the events that had taken place on the Kingsroad, yet this was a time to act a lady and so she did as she was trained.

The draping sleeves of the queen's gown dusted the along the floor when her hands were clasped before her, as there were now. Anya was painfully aware of her less than presentable appearance, instead of her usual dresses she wore breeches and a flowing tunic that had been belted at the waist, her hair was a frenzy of curls and knots. Compared to the queen she was laughable. "How is King's Landing treating you?" Cersei had led her to a secluded balcony that overlooked Blackwater Bay. The dark water was uncharacteristically calm, only gentle swells broke against the brick, an ill feeling came over Anya as she felt the queen's gaze on her.

"Very well, admittedly there are many differences from home," she missed Winterfell, but most of all she missed the people within the stone walls. Robb, Rickon, and Bran, her heart still had a certain ache to it when she thought of Bran and the fall that had led to him being crippled, though most of all she missed Jon. The bastard son of Ned whom Catelyn had never accepted, Anya remember nights when the babe would wake, crying, and she would be the one to calm him. She dearly missed the white wolf.

The queen could see the longing in her guest's grey eyes as she looked to the horizon. When Anya looked at the queen the sincerity in her jade eyes was almost believable. "I am glad to hear it," Cersei laid her smooth hands on the stone railing and immediately Anya felt the need to conceal her scarred and hardened hands from sight, "And the tournament, did you enjoy it?"

The little Lady nodded, "I did, your grace," she paused for a moment and thought of the conversations that she and Ned had engaged in before the tournament concerning politics and the state of the realm, "though it was an unnecessary extravagance." She seemed to add the last bit as a second thought. Cersei waved her hand and moments later a young serving boy brought forth two cups of red wine, passing them to the queen and her guest. Anya took a hesitant sip of the wine and winced as the liquid burned at her throat, it was  an exceptionally strong vintage.

"If you don't mind answering such a question, I would love to know why you have taken an interest in Joffrey's dog," the queen tilted her head to the side and raised a single bloody perfect brow in a manner that was intended to be condescending, bordering on mocking. The Whent girl shook her head and dared to meet the queen's harsh stare, "I fear you misunderstand the rapport between us."

Cersei Lannister laughed, the sound was shrill and out of place and the expression on her fair face did not change, "Even though my eyes and ears inform me that you drink with him quite often at the taverns? You gave him your favour at the Hand's Tourney, playing coy is not a game I recommend here in King's Landing." A lurking threat was surfacing in the queen's voice and Anya decided that she would play along with what Cersei had planned for the time being.

"He is a man of very few words, I find that desirable in a drinking companion, as for my favour, all the other knights had favours and while I know he is not a knight, it seemed a shame to send him off without one," the memory was fresh in her mind from the tourney, he had not wished to participate but it was not his place to question the wishes of a pompous prince and then she remembered the rose he had thrown to her. More than a month had passed and the rose was wilting in the small vase she had put it in but now she would store it between the pages of a book to serve as a token. "A peculiar woman. You know most cannot even bear to look him in the eye?"

The way the Queen spoke of the Hound was appalling to hear for one, such as Anya, who considered herself to be his friend of sorts. Cersei had mocked him, constantly bringing up the disfigurement of his face and laughed at the times she had seen women and men alike scream because of the scarred man. Anya hadn't remembered the exact wording of the question the queen had asked but her reply slipped from her lips before she thought over the words. "People are more than just their skin, your grace. The most scarred people can have the gentlest souls and kindest hearts and sometimes it is the most beautiful that have the blackest of hearts."

The queen's eyes narrowed and darkened at the provoking words yet all she said was a simple, "Indeed." Anya excused herself and went into the city market, finding comfort in the crowds, away from the suffocating red stone of the Keep and away from Cersei Lannister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize for the lack of Sandor in these past two chapters, but I want to develop a strong plot for my OC that doesn't solely rely on her feelings for the Hound. We'll be seeing him again soon though. ;)


	16. Fourteen

When news had reached her that Lord Eddard Stark had been attacked in the streets of King's Landing there would have been no force able to stop her from running to the Hand's Tower. She dashed up the stairs, taking two at a time, and threw open the door to his chambers. Grand Maester Pycelle had just administered a dose of a concoction he named dreamwine. The old man gave Anya a handful of instructions that would aid in the recovery of her brother and for days she diligently tended to his wound and gave him the medicinal drink when the pain came. Ned hardly remained awake long enough for her to ask questions and receive answers, he needed rest and she would not hinder it from coming.

On the third day, she woke Ned from a dream that had caused him to squirm fitfully and tear open a good portion of the scab that had finally come. " _Lyanna_ ," was the only thing he managed to grit out through the pain. Anya gave him milk of the poppy and switched out the soiled bandages before receiving the meal which had been brought up for her. She wished it would have been Jory standing there when she opened the heavy oak door but it was only Tomard with his ginger whiskers and rotund belly hiding beneath mail and leather. She took the platter of food and ate what little she could stomach, always leaving portions untouched in case her brother should wake.

Sansa and Arya sorely noticed her absence from their daily lunches and while they knew the reason why it made for long days and nights. Anya would not allow them to see their father in such a state. She could hardly bear to look at Ned like this, herself. Sandor had noted her absence as well, she did not frequent the tavern, nor was she in the training yard in the earlier hours of the day. He half-envied Anya and Ned's relationship, or at least to know what it was like to have a caring sibling.

Six days had gone by when Ned woke in the evening hours and declined the dreamwine, asking for water instead. The tired and worn state of his sister was not the first sight he wished to see. Her hair was messy, falling from a loose braid, and her skin looked pale as his, dark circles had formed under her eyes. She handed him a goblet of water. "Who did this?" Eddard Stark had never seen his sister's eyes hold true malice, but she seethed with it.

"Jaime Lannister," had the Kingslayer been within an arm's reach she would have killed him herself, but he had fled the city and no one had made mention of where he was going, Casterly Rock perhaps. "Because Catelyn took Tyrion as her prisoner," Ned added. Ned had told Anya that Catelyn had come to King's Landing bearing a Valyrian steel dagger that was intended to open Bran's throat from ear to ear. Her poor hands had paid dearly in the ordeal. Summer had been the one to kill the assassin.

"I do not think the Imp had anything to do with the attempt on Bran's life. He's far too smart and cunning to arm a hired killer with his own dagger. And truthfully I do not think it was Jaime either. A war between Starks and Lannisters is the last thing the kingdom needs, they both know that." Ned could not muster a response, the pain was returning to his leg and even with hours of sleep he was still tired.

Anya paced around the room several times, fiddling with the frayed ends of her honeyed hair and biting nervously at her nails. By chance when she had neared his bed, Ned gripped her wrist to stop her ceaseless pacing elsewise he be driven mad. The Whent girl sat at on the edge of the bed. "Jory?" She had not seen him since Ned had been attacked and the others would not tell her what had become of him, though somehow she already knew. The captain of the Stark's household guard had been her friend for many years, they had grown closer after Benjen had left for the Wall.

Regrettably, Ned told Anya of his fate, but she couldn't weep. _I pulled myself through the mud and filth and held his cold body, Anya, my brother in arms_ , he wouldn't've been able to bear telling her that or the way Jaime Lannister butchered him. It was still too fresh in his mind and the dreams of fighting at the Tower of Joy did not help either.

"I always liked him," she admitted, almost shyly. After all, Jory had been the first boy she kissed, she was four-and-ten when it had happened one night in the stables. It took all her courage to act and when she stepped back Jory had turned so red the maester thought him ill the next morning. For a week the two could not look at each other without blushing. She had kissed him again after he returned from Greyjoy's Rebellion and on the beach here in the city what now seemed like years ago, but they were not meant to be lovers, only close friends.

"He asked me about courting you once, right after you sent that Glover boy running back with his tail between his legs." She hardly remembered the men she had sent running when Ned invited them to Winterfell to seek her hand in courtship and eventually marriage. After several years he gave up any and all efforts of finding a suitable lord husband for his sister. Something about this admission stung, though. They had always been friends and maybe if they had courted something could have blossomed into love. She shook away the thoughts, it was foolish to dwell on the past. "Had he asked at the time I might have said yes."

There was sweat on his brow, Anya went to the washbasin and returned with a damp rag to lay across his forehead. Ned frowned, though Anya managed a weak smile. It reminded her of one time Jon was sick and pouted all day about not being able to help Robb build a snowfort. "I'll go fetch you a meal."

She returned in moments, "Here, broth and bread. Pycelle didn't think you could stomach much else," she placed the tray of food next to the bed and refilled his water goblet. Ned broke off a hunk of the bread and took the bowl of broth. Anya returned to the chair she had occupied for the past days and glanced down at her unkempt appearance. "I'll bring Arya and Sansa up if you would like." He nodded and she slipped away again. Arya was the first to run to his bedside, Sansa was more reserved in her mannerisms. "Father!" Arya clambered onto the featherbed next to him while Sansa stood at his bedside. Silently, Anya slipped from Ned's chambers and down the stairs to her own.

Word traveled quickly through the night that Lord Eddard had woken from his grievous injury. Robert had demanded his presence yet it was still not known if Ned could even stand, let alone walk. He received the king and queen in his chambers with only the eyes and ears of invisible little birds watching and listening.

Anya stood outside the tower's entrance while the two monarchs were with Ned. She kicked at a loose cobble and tuned out the sounds of the city and Keep. Joffrey had passed by with Sandor trailing behind him like a shadow, he offered Anya a quick glance before continuing on with a blank but obedient expression. Cersei fled in fury, a bright red mark on her cheek and soon after the king followed, his Kingsguard trailing behind him.

It had taken some time, but Ned had dressed and wished to be outside. He walked with a cane and a severe limp, Anya held onto his arm, keeping his pace. It felt like half the day had passed before they had even left the Tower of the Hand as the stairs had proven to be tricky. She made jokes here and there, even going so far as to call him an old man. Ned didn't laugh, but he had smiled.

The spoken affairs of the morning may have been intended to remain private but when his sister questioned what had been said or done to cause the queen to rush from the tower in fury he told her. "He'll be grey and on a walking stick still demanding wine and a whore to stick his cock in. How many bastards does he have?" Anya pinched the bridge of her nose irritably and sighed. "Robert may be your friend but he's a damn fool, Ned."

Lord Eddard Stark tried to shush his sister from her outburst but did not deny a single word she had said. He had not spoken in excess about what occurred in the politics and affairs of the Seven Kingdoms but nothing escaped Anya's watchful eye and keen sense for ruling and managing. "The kingdom is run by backstabbers and liars and owes Tywin Lannister more gold than there are whores in King's Landing," she prattled on. "And what does the oaf do? He decides to go hunting." Ned looked at her in a manner that told her she had already spoken enough. "You think I care if Cersei's eyes see me? If Petyr's ears hear me speak the truth? I don't give a damn about Varys's little birds either, Ned. Words are wind."

He chuckled, "You always did have an affinity for getting into trouble." Ned took a few more slow steps and the little Lady smiled. Renly was approaching from the opposite end of the courtyard they had been walking through. Anya thought it best if he could be with him without her company as she could hardly stand Robert's little brother. He cared and talked more of his clothes than anything else it seemed, other than that he was perfectly charming. "Where are you going?" Ned inquired.

She turned to look back over her shoulder, "To drink." He expected nothing less.

Fetching a cloak, she pulled the hood up and set out into the city streets. The tavern she had grown fond of was less than a mile from the Red Keep. With darkening streets, the Whent girl kept watchful eyes on her surroundings, her fingers itching to grip the small dagger that was tucked within her boot and concealed by heavy skirts. The path was memory, a left, then a right, and finally, another left that led to the back of a bakery where a cool tankard of mead would be waiting for her.

Anya paused upon realizing that she had taken a turn too soon, with a frown she retraced her steps and found one of the main streets again as a large black warhorse came to a halt though the rider showed no intention of stopping. Stranger had recognized her nevertheless, even wearing a hood. She pushed back the hood of her cloak and gave the Hound a hangdog smile. "Long time no see, little rose," he offered his hand to help her up onto the horse. Anya wondered if he realized it was the first time their hands had touched.

The saddle on Stranger was scarcely big enough to hold two, even if she was quite small compared to Sandor. Riding sidesaddle she clutched at his back with a hand and was shocked to feel that the heavy armor he always wore was gone, replaced by a coarse tunic the color of slate.

He brought her to the godswood, compared to Winterfell's it was paltry. There were no weirwood trees to be found, only a stump in the center of the wood where one might have grown thousands of years ago before the faith of the Seven grew. She went to the white stump and sat upon it. She remembered seeing some of the tree's stumps that would have been large enough for a fully grown man to lie comfortably upon it. The remaining pale wood was smooth and the red sap had stained the ground around it.

Anya glanced to where Sandor stood, he was patting Stranger's neck and whispering something kindly to the horse. "Do you ever miss home?" She supposed it was a pointless question to ask if the tales she had heard surrounding his scars were true.

Sandor studied her for a moment and rasped out a firm "no."

"I don't miss my home either, but I do miss Winterfell," she looked ahead at the other trees within the wood, imagining that they were the trees that belonged in Winterfell's godswood. If she thought about it hard enough the scent of the year's first snow would come back to her. He sat on the weirwood stump as well. "Thank you, for bringing me here." He didn't say anything in response, she hadn't expected him to.

Sandor handed her a wineskin. She drank and found that it was one of the sweetest vintages she had ever tasted. Silence lingered between them until she remembered with estranged look he had cast her way that morning. "Did you always hate him?" Anya asked, Sandor only blinked. "Joffrey, I mean."

"No, when he was squalling babe I could hate his cries but not him," his eyes were fixated on the ground, "the Queen trusted me with him before he could even walk for some stupid reason. I'd put him on my shoulders and go wherever he wanted. They would say that Dunk and Egg had come again." Anya smiled and passed the skin of wine back to the Hound. The tales of Ser Duncan and Aegon the V all came rushing back from childhood, she had loved those tales dearly and swore that one day she would tell them to her own children.

"Here," in Sandor's outstretched hand was his cloak. It wasn't cold nor was her dress made of a thin material, regardless she took the cloak and wrapped the coarse material around her shoulders. Wearing someone else's cloak always provided her with a strange sense of comfort and protection. When Anya had first come to Winterfell, Brandon would give her his to wear, then Benjen, and when they had grown older so had Jory. Such a simple gesture had taken her back years in memories and mindlessly she pulled Sandor's cloak around her even tighter. Woven into the fabric was the scent of smoke, iron, and cinnamon. Soon the fragrance of roses would be intermingled.

"What was Clegane's Keep like? Did it have high walls, strong towers, a godswood?" The wine had loosened her tongue and now she was purely curious about the man she had spent so much time drinking with. Anya was shocked when he answered with hardly any hesitation. "It was south of Lannisport and Casterly Rock, didn't have any towers, walls, or courtyards but there was a village under us. There was an old toymaker, he would make us all gifts, wooden knights, dolls...," a strange type of fondness weaseled its way into his voice. Sandor cast an eye over the woman sitting at his side, her tired eyes were closed and a small wistful smile was playing on her lips. "It's all grass and no trees, might have been a godswood couple hundred years ago."

Neither of them spoke after that.

When the wine was gone and the sun was setting, Anya unwrapped the cloak from her shoulders and stood. Ned and the girls would be expecting her back before dark. Sandor untied Stranger's reins and while Anya was perfectly capable of mounting herself, he picked her up by the waist and sat her on the courser's back as if she weighed nothing at all. In silence, they rode back to the Keep. The Hound eased her off the horse's back, watched her pass safely into the Tower of the Hand and then trotted off to the stables.


	17. Fifteen

Ned came to her chambers two nights later supporting himself with a walking stick. She hated seeing him like this. He sat on her bed and stretched out his healing leg with a grimace, "Anya, we need to speak," she did not like the grave tone of his voice one bit, "I've received a raven."

A thousand things raced through her mind at once. She thought of her nephews at Winterfell and feared that something had happened to Bran again. Maybe it was news on what Catelyn was doing with the Imp as her prisoner. Lastly, she thought of Jon and his new place at the Wall with Benjen at his side. She would have given anything to see the both of them. "Is it the boys? Catelyn?"

He shook his head. "From Castle Black," in his hand was a piece of parchment with a broken black seal. She had seen it many times from the letters Benjen sent. It was foolish to hope it would be a letter from her brother at the Wall by the way Ned was acting, but she held onto a fool's hope until he told her what it said. "Benjen went missing on a ranging party north of the Wall. His horse came back, but not him."

Anya shook her head, laughing almost at the obscurity of what she had just been told. "No. Let me see it." She held her hand out but Ned would not relinquish the scroll. "Anya," he began in a stern tone but she cut him off, "Let me see the _damn_ piece of paper, Ned! I need to read it for myself," she took the piece of parchment into shaking hands and read the words Jeor Mormont had written three times over just to be sure of what it said. _It's not true_. _It can't be true. He was among the most seasoned rangers of the Watch. Benjen is still out there. My brother is out there all alone. He's not dead._

Her voice all but vanished. Tears rolled down her cheeks, the only sign she was crying came from the uneven breaths that caused her chest to heave and shoulders to shake. _Direwolves don't cry_. Ned placed his arm around her shoulders, she leaned into him _. He doesn't hug like Benjen does, there is love but not warmth_. A hand gently stroked her hair but it couldn't stall the tears or the despair that had taken hold of her heart. 

_Direwolves don't cry_ , she repeated in her mind. _Direwolves don't cry_ , she only cried harder. _Direwolves don't cry_ , she said again and again as if it would make the tears stop. _Direwolves don't cry, but I'm not a wolf_.

-

She woke to the soft knocking of one of her chambermaids asking kindly if she should like to accompany her brother and nieces for breakfast. For three days she had declined to eat hardly anything in the wake of Benjen's death. Methodically the maid helped her bathe and dress in silence. In truth. Anya was afraid to say anything for the fear that she would begin crying for her lost brother once again. The bells were tolling from the Sept of Baelor and Rana spoke about Robert Baratheon's passing, but there was to be no service or wake for the late king as he wished to be laid to rest at Storm's End.

A solemn and wary air sounded the Starks as they broke their fast together; even Arya was not as excited for her dancing lessons after Jory's death. Sansa was still upset at the prospect that her father wished to send them back to Winterfell. Sansa went with Septa Mordane for her lessons and Arya followed them to go to her own lesson with Syrio Forel.

Extra guards surrounded the two as they left the Tower of the Hand, it was Anya's attempt to draw her brother's troubled thoughts away from the past and the chaos of King's Landing. It was also a chance for her own mind and heart to mend. They walked through the garden, barely speaking but Ned had never been one for excessive words.

Ned and his host turned at the herald's cry, "Lord Stark!" Several of the guardsmen went to draw sword as the man approached, he was held back by Cayn and Lew who were wary of letting the man near their liege lord. "It's alright, let him through."

The messenger righted himself and stood before Ned, "Lord Stark, King Joffrey and the Queen Regent request your presence in the throne room." _Demand would have been a better word to use than request_ , Anya looked around the open hall and felt like there were a thousand eyes looking down upon her.

"King Joffrey?" Ned sounded surprised.

"King Robert is gone," the herald said, "may the gods give him rest." Just the thought of that wretched boy on the Iron Throne sent chills prickling up Anya's spine. The herald left as quickly as he had come. Ned took a slow step toward the Great Hall but Anya gripped onto her brother's arm before he could go any further, "Ned, something isn't right," but his honor and stubbornness wouldn't listen to her frightened observation. She played the proper lady and did not speak out of turn again, not even while her brother spoke to the Spider and Littlefinger or when he pulled a letter sealed with the Baratheon stag from her belt.

At first glimpse of the throne room and its occupants, Anya shrank away _. This is it, this how we die far from home and alone_. Joffrey Baratheon sat on the throne with his mother on one side and the Hound on the other, his loyal kingsgaurd stood before the dais with Ser Barristan at the front. It all passed in a blur, the scroll signed by Robert proclaiming Ned Protector the Realm until Joffrey come of age, to the claim that the boy was a bastard with no claim. Anya stood with frightfully wide eyes.

"Ser Barristan, seize this traitor," Cersei demanded, but the Lord Commander of the Kingsgaurd hesitated. In a blink, he was surrounded by Stark guardsmen with drawn swords in their mailed fists. Ned gave his sister one fleeting glance. Anya slipped through the doors and ran. The last thing she heard was the command given by Janos Slynt and the maimed screams of her brother's men.

The massacre overflowed into the rest of the keep. Anya wrenched free one of the decorative swords that lined the hall, age may have dulled the blade but in the right hands it would still be deadly. 

Sansa stumbled back when she turned the corner and ran into her aunt. There was a brief moment where fear overcame the girl as she saw the bloodied sword Anya had in hand. She tossed the blade down and brought the girl into her arms before pushing her off in the direction of her room, "Go, run to your room, bar the door." Then they were both running.

With labored breaths, Anya closed the doors to her chambers and slid the double locks into place at the side and ceiling. Sansa would be safe in her chambers though outside the tower walls the Lannister guards and Goldcloaks were slaughtering Stark men. She breathed a sigh of relief and rested her forehead on the wooden surface, but the hair had raised on her neck and she knew someone was within her room.

Her dagger laid on the bedside table, out of reach. She turned and faced him, "Why are you here?" The sight of Sandor Clegane was unsurprising, to say the least, with the arrest of her brother, he had been one of the first to draw a sword in the throne room. "Queen's orders, I'm to bring you to her." Anya didn't like the idea of having an audience with Cersei when her brother had just been thrown into a cell on her command.

"Are you sure you haven't been sent to kill me?" The Hound towered over her. His longsword was still drawn and splattered with blood, _the blood of my brother's men_. She took a step back and found that she was trapped between him and the wall. "No, little rose, I'm not here to kill you, but another might come to do that if you don't go." He sheathed his sword and she went willingly hoping that it was possible for her to hide the blood on her hands.

Cersei sat in the middle seat of the small council table, Littlefinger and Varys each had a place at the end. Sandor's shadow engulfed hers as he pushed her forward. "Your grace,-" the queen smirked and raised a glass of wine to her lips, two of the Kingsguard had joined the occasion as well and behind them they sealed the doors, she prayed Ser Barristan was one of them but when she glanced at them her fate seemed sealed, there was no one within the stone walls of the room that would defend her. "Would you like to confess your treason as well, Lady Stark?"

Anya swallowed the lump in her throat and declared her innocence. She laid bare her case and swore its truth by the old gods and the new. She told Cersei that she had spoken out about the late King Robert, but never about Joffrey or the legitimacy of his claim to the throne with Ned. She had barely seen him at all during the weeks prior to his confrontation with Jaime, but to Cersei her words were wind.

The queen stood and slammed her hands down upon the wooden table, the decanter of wine toppled over, its contents spilled out as dark as blood. "A traitor's sister! That is what you are! Am I to believe that you had no part in your brother's schemes to take Joffrey's crown? Do you think me that foolish?" Anya Whent said nothing. "Take her to rot next to her brother." Ser Boros Blount stepped forward, iron shackles fell from his hand. The cold metal of the cuffs encircled her wrists, never had she dreamt of a day when she would be led away in irons. Ser Mandon Moore had come to her side as well though before they could drag her away the Hound stepped forward. "Your grace-"

"What have you to say, dog?" Words betrayed him, a moment ago and he had a coherent sentence to speak and now that the queen watched him in abhorrence it had been lost. He looked over his shoulder at the Whent girl, bound and convicted of crimes she had no part of. Honey hair framed a face that was fairer than Cersei's. Her eyes were no longer steel but resembled a dark cloud before a rainstorm. Sandor had held her gaze long enough for the queen to notice, her shrill mocking laughter pierced the silence.

"How sweet, the Hound has found himself a bitch. I suppose I can let you keep her." That statement alone was enough to cause Blount and Moore to leave her side, yet they left the shackles on. "You have been granted mercy, this time, _Lady_ Anya. Do not count on it occurring again." Anya half wondered if Cersei expected her to bow down and praise her but she would not bend the knee and give her the satisfaction, she locked eyes with the queen and held her gaze. "Take her from my sight, Dog." Sandor grabbed her arm and hauled her from the queen's solar.

With a straight pin key, he undid the fetters that had been placed on her wrists. Anya glanced up at him, her eyes running over the scarred half of his face. _He defended me and nearly defied the queen's order_ , her heart felt odd, as did her stomach. "You shouldn't have done that," she finally spoke. When his eyes drifted to look upon her face, he lingered on her parted lips for a second too long and made a gruff noise as the shackles fell to the floor, "It won't happen again," he turned and retreated towards the royal chambers.

"Sandor!" She slipped in front of him and pressed her hand into the center of his chest as if she could actually stop him. He glanced down at her in near indifference, noticing that her hands and arms were splattered with blood, much like his were. "Thank you," she breathed.

"I wouldn't thank me if I were you, little rose," he left her standing in the hall alone, surrounded by enemies. " _A hound will die for you, but never lie to you_ ," the words seemed to come from the wall next to her but when she turned it was the eunuch who stood behind her. He and Petyr had a strange way of appearing out of thin air at unexpected times. Her eyes were still trained in the direction Sandor had gone even as she greeted the Master of Whispers, "Varys."

His hands were clasped over his belly with the long flowing robe that covered him from neck to feet. "You have my deepest condolences. Your brother is a good man."

"If you know he is then spare me your commiserations and ask that he be released." To that he had no reply. It wasn't until they had crossed the courtyard to the Tower of the Hand that Varys spoke again.

"You will be wishing to see him before he is brought to the Sept to confess?"

Anya frowned, "A trap, you mean."

"Never, Lady Anya. He is your brother, you should be able to see him." Any fool with common sense would know not to trust the Spider yet this time, Anya couldn't help but think that for once he was being sincere and honest. Her shoulders slumped forward in respite from all that had happened. "The fourth level of the dungeons has not been used since Robert took the throne. I must caution you that some of the sights are rather unsettling but it will take you to him. It is the safest path."

Her fair face was blank of all emotion, her expressive grey eyes were hollow. "If you're lying to me, I'll kill you." Lord Varys knew that the flat-toned threat was also a promise.


	18. Sixteen

Anya longed for an ally in King's Landing, but alas, there was no one she could trust wholly with any substantial power and for that she was free while her brother was locked away in the black cells. The fool had trusted the wrong people too easily. Yet Varys directions did not dissipate so easily. The eunuch was self-serving no doubt, but for this matter, he had seemed sincere enough.

Under a large draping cloak that the jailers wore, the little Lady stowed away two wineskins of water, a loaf of bread, and a hunk of cheese. It was the late hours of the night when she decided to press her luck and go to the dungeons. She descended down into the depths. Word had reached her of the layout of the cells and though many spoke of the horrors that occurred on the fourth level the veil of darkness that laid there would be her friend. She listened to those little birds.

Water dripped from the stone ceiling, mold and putrid stenches lingered heavily in the air. Her boots hardly made a sound across the stone floor except when she stepped on a bone or a dismembered leg or arm that rats had claimed as a feast. She willed herself to press on and not scream at some of the instruments of torture her lantern brought light to. The stairs that led to the third level were crumbling from age and disregard, the black cells lined the corridors of this level, and Anya knew she would find Ned here.

There had only been one occupied cell and when she pushed the splintering door open, the dim flame of the lamp revealed her brother, chained to the wall and sitting in a puddle of stagnant water. Anya knelt at his side and touched his cheek, at the sensation he almost believed it to be Catelyn. "What have they done to you, Ned?" He would not say anything in response. _She is a ghost, he said all others of my household were dead. Sansa is trapped in the lion's den and Arya cannot be found_ , but when she embraced him, he could feel the warmth and the dampness of her cheek against his, she was alive.

The Whent girl emptied out her cloak's pockets, passing the bread and cheese to Eddard. He took the water first and drank. "You shouldn't have come down here," his voice was raw and parched even after drinking.

"You're my brother. I can't allow them to starve you down here in this filth," he began to eat while Anya examined his still healing leg. There was no sign of infection but she replaced the linen bandages regardless. The small flames of her lantern cast dark shadows across Eddard Stark's face and made him appear years old than he was. "Ned, your children need their father. I will speak to Cersei and ask her to allow me to take your place. Think of them," she supplicated.

Ned placed his fettered hands on his sister's cheek, "Anya, no. I cannot allow you to give your life for mine. Do not ask me to see your blood split." She wanted to protest his stubbornness. I have nothing, Ned, but you have every reason to live. "I need you to look after them for me. Keep them safe. Swear your fealty to Joffrey if you must." Anya shook her head, he was speaking like a madman. "Promise me, Anya." She placed her hands atop his and was slow to nod. _Keep our brothers safe_ , had been the promise she had made to Lyanna as she rode south that fateful night never to be seen again, _I have failed you, sweet sister_.

"I must tell you something, dear brother and I pray that you will not be angry with me for keeping it to myself for so long," the oil for her lantern was beginning to run low, it would not last another hour. Anya looked around the bleak cell as she could feel Ned's eyes on her, waiting. "Lyanna wasn't abducted as Robert and you had many believe. She went willingly, I was there the night she left." Anya took her brother's hands in her own, though in comparison hers looked to belong to a child.

It took Ned a moment to realize the quivering in his sister's voice came from her tears. "During the tournament at Harrenhal she was the Knight of the Laughing Tree and it won her the favor of Rhaegar. They had been writing to one another for months afterward. She told me that Robert was only her friend. That she did not want to marry him."

Brandon had known that Lyanna did not want to marry out of duty, she was a wolf, and wolves were not easily tamed by stags, lions, or dragons. Anya wondered if Ned had ever realized that his sister was unhappy with the arrangement. "I was there when she died, in the Tower of Joy, on a bed of blood and weak from fever," his voice was hardly even a susurration.

"I know," Anya whispered.

"And you have heard me speak of the promise I swore to keep," Ned's steely eyes met Anya's as she nodded. It was a promise she had never known and one that he would not speak of, not even to Catelyn. "If I am to die, sister, then you should know the truth so you can tell the boy of his mother." Somehow she knew, she had known all along that Jon was not Ned's bastard. The fool was too honorable to take another woman to bed when he had married Catelyn Tully. She had always noticed the resemblance to Lyanna in the boy, black hair that couldn't be tamed and a kindly face that was stern. "Jon is of Stark blood but not mine. Lyanna died after birthing him, she made me promise that I would raise him as my own to save him from Robert's wrath."

"And you have." _But I have failed to keep my promise to her_.

"You should go now before someone sees you." Anya knew he was right but she wasn't ready to leave him yet.

Dawn would be breaking soon and her lantern was dying. She wrapped her arms around Eddard Stark one last time and kissed his temple while he clumsily tried to clutch her hands with his shackled ones. He had never been so grateful to have her as a sister.

She took the path through the fourth level of the dungeons again and emerged into the last moments of the night. "It's not wise to wander around at night alone," Anya recognized the voice that spoke from behind her and the familiarity of the sentence, but that did not stall her shock.

It took a moment before she realized that her small dagger was against Sandor Clegane's neck, the steel just biting into his skin so a single drop of blood trickled down the blade, yet he did not reach for his own sword nor fight against the little Lady. The shock passed her by but she had not removed the knife from his throat. The Hound pulled her hand away and finally she sheathed the dagger. "What business did you have down in the dungeon's, little rose?"

The questions she wanted to ask of him were too numerous to count, but he had called her a little rose again and the inquiry slipped out without hesitation, "Why do you call me that?"

Sandor looked in the direction of the Hand's Tower, anything to avoid looking at her, "Run along and I won't tell anyone you were down there." Anya huffed in annoyance, picked up her skirts and went on her way in silence leaving the sweet smell of roses to linger around the Hound.

Anya could not risk going to see her brother again, Cersei had grown even more suspicious of her and for the first time she close to fearing the Lannister woman as the fate of Sansa and Ned rested in her tainted hands. Sansa had come to her room the night after Joffrey had held court to accept oaths of fealty from the lords in service to the crown and the small council. It was there Sansa had asked her betrothed for mercy to be extended to Ned. "You've asked for mercy, Sansa. That is all you can do."

As Sansa paced about the room and wrung her hands together it was like Catelyn had appeared in the room. Anya remembered the way Catelyn stark paced around the Great Hall of Winterfell when Ned had gone with Robert to stop the Greyjoys from rebelling. "Can't you do something, though?"

"Cersei believes that I am no better than your father." _Sandor is the only reason I am with you and not locked away with Ned_. She would not say that aloud, though. Anya knew the scarred man frightened Sansa, she was still young and innocent to understand the hatred and cynical worldview.

"Where's Arya?" It had been four days since Anya had last seen her running off for her dancing lessons but after the massacre she hadn't been seen again. The Whent girl would not allow herself to think the worst. "I don't know. Wherever she is a pray she is safe and that she may run home."

When morning came Anya dressed and went to immediately to Sansa's chambers as she had promised the night before. Two handmaidens were braiding her auburn hair and adorning it with golden wire. Anya's own hair was left flowing in loose waves, she was yet to be tamed by the South. The Whent girl picked up a doll that was on Sansa's nightstand, "What's this?"

Sansa and Arya both had not touched a doll in what must have been five years, "It's nothing but a silly doll father gave me, he said Princess Myrcella's dollmaker is who made it." Anya looked at the porcelain face and the yellow-orange thread that had been used to make auburn hair.

"Your father is a soldier, you must forgive him if he does not understand his daughters wholly." The dress and coverlet were sewn from scraps of silk and lace and edged with golden thread. Anya turned and in the mirror, she saw Sansa's reflection and her own, "One day when he's gone you'll be grateful to have this."

With a sigh, she sat the doll aside and stood, "No tears," Anya wiped away the dampness under Sansa's eyes with a linen handkerchief. Her eyes were Tully blue, more so now than they had ever been before. The handmaidens offered a small curtsey before leaving.

"I'm scared," Sansa spoke in a hushed voice and Anya remembered what Ned had once told Robb and Jon, _the only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid_ , she smiled and offered Sansa her arm for the journey to the Sept of Baelor. "Then that means you can be brave."

Sansa stood next to Cersei with her hair done up in a southern style wearing a southern dress, no part of her belonged to the North any longer except for the grey slippers on her feet that no one could see. Anya wore a dress of a blue so dark it looked black, the sleeves dusted the floor when she stood straight on the steps of Baelor, isolated. _Keep them safe_ , Ned had told her, _swear your fealty to Joffrey if you must_. She could do that, but Cersei would not allow her to bend the knee and escape unscathed, she wished to see the Stark name tarnished even more.

Ned was brought forth and led through the crowd. Anya wished that she could have forgotten the words being shouted at her brother as he limped through the people that had gathered. As he ascended the stairs, Ned looked at her but she could not meet his gaze. The Whent girl knew what she had to say, but no one had told her she would be speaking in front of the brother she was to name a turncoat, it made everything so much harder.

"Anya of House Stark," she could not say of the people gathered on the steps had spoken her name for the city to hear. If she glanced at her brother there would be no way she could say the rehearsed words, even now she could hardly bear the thought. _Keep them safe_. She stepped forward as a Stark and looked across the people that had gathered, they thought no better of her either. When her mouth opened words would not come. _Arya_ , the girl was hiding in the crowd beneath the statue of Baelor the Blessed. _Run, run as far and fast as you can, run home_ , she wanted to scream. Over her shoulder, the queen and Joffrey were growing restless with her silence. _Don't make me do this, I beg you_. Even if she had gotten down on her knees and pleaded in the most elegant way with the prettiest of words she knew there was no way around this.

Anya drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes, "My brother is Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, Lord of Winterfell and," she paused and looked at Ned as he was being supported between two members of the City's Watch, _a good man, an honorable man, a father, a brother_ , but that was not the words Cersei Lannister or her bastard son wanted to hear, "a traitor. I condemn his actions and proclaim in front of gods and men alike that I had no part in his treasonous plot to rob the crown from Joffrey. May the gods be merciful and just in their judgment." Forgive me, Ned.

The rest of the lines came easily after that, "I, Anya Stark, declare on this day in sight of gods and men that my fealty shall be owed to King Joffrey of the House Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals and the First Men and Protector of the Realm from this day until my last." Murmurs rustled through the gathering of common folk, small voices of approval. She fought to urge to retch up her breakfast and finally turned to look at Cersei and Joffrey, they were both smiling in victory.

Joffrey extended his arm toward Sansa, "Come, Lady Anya, stand at my betrothed's side." She did as her king commanded her and turned to watch as Ned stepped forward.

"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King," he lowered his head and continued with a shaking voice, "I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men. I betrayed the faith of my King and the trust of my friend Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children... but before his blood was cold, I plotted to murder his son... and seize the throne for myself." _Lying does not come easily to you dear brother_.

A cobble hit Ned's temple, seconds later small rivulets of blood had begun to run down the side of his face. Had Anya seen the man or woman who had thrown the stone had her brother she would have killed them. In truth, she felt like killing them all, including the king and his mother. Sandor stepped forward and steadied him. "Let the High Septon and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I've said. Joffrey Baratheon... is the one true heir to the Iron Throne... by the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

"As we sin so do we suffer. This man has confessed his crimes in sight of gods and men. The gods are just, but beloved Baelor taught us they can also be merciful." Despite Ned's confession, the crowd still waved him down with cruel jeers _. They want blood_ , she realized. The old maester looked over to where Joffrey stood, "What is to be done with this traitor, your grace?"

"My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join the Night's Watch... stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the realm in permanent exile. And my Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father." Joffrey looked over to Sansa, she smiled at him and down at her father but it faded within seconds, "but they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I'm your king treason shall never go unpunished! Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!"

It was a rush of madness, Cersei had gripped onto Joffrey's arm, Varys was trying to speak out against the decision, Sansa was screaming, and the King's Justice stepped forward holding Ned's own sword and sheath.

"NO!" Anya darted forward but someone had stopped her before she could reach her brother and pulled her away. Sandor Clegane's arms restrained Anya Whent as she struggled and fought to rush to Eddard Stark's side. Had it not been for him she would have pushed Ilyn Payne away and taken the greatsword, Ice, up to protect her dear brother and for that, she would have been the next to die.

The Hound pulled the little Lady around and crushed her against his armored chest so she could not look at the King's Justice as he reared back with sword in hand. Anya kicked and screamed and cried but she could not free herself from his hold. She could not protect her brother, she could not console her niece as she pleaded for her father's life, yet somehow the Hound's grip on her was not entirely ungentle. "Let go of me! Let me go!" Sandor held her tighter.

The greatsword came down quickly and by the time she had wrenched herself free from the Hound's grasp it was too late. Sansa had fallen to the ground, sobbing, while all Anya could do was stare at the decapitated body of her brother and his bloody head that lay only a few feet away. It felt like a terrible dream. Anya squeezed her eyes shut and even pinched her arm but when she opened them the body was still there, the pool of blood had grown larger. She screamed at the heavens. A flock of blackbirds took flight.

Janos Sylnt and three other men of the City's Watch carried her back to the Tower of the Hand kicking and screaming, it was all she could do to stall the tears. They took no care for her wellbeing when they pushed her down on hands and knees into her room and slammed the door as they left.

Grief had blinded her, regret had driven her mad. Anya threw open the lid of the coffer she had brought from Winterfell and shuffled around the contents. She had taken her sword from the sheath and set out with cold determination. _I'll kill them all, kill them all_ , it wasn't until she reached the grand door of the tower did she realize what she was doing.

It was not time for revenge and there would never be justice, for now, Anya returned to her chambers, slumped down in the darkest corner and cried. She supposed it was best that way.

-

Anya had could cry no more, but Sansa's tears were fresh and renewed after Joffrey had demanded her company for the afternoon. Her niece would not say who had bruised her cheek or bloodied her lip, or even the reason behind why he had requested her company.

Sansa had reverted back to a small child. In truth, she wanted her mother to hold her whilst she cried but it was Anya who let her cry into her shoulder. The Whent girl brushed back the stray strands of auburn hair and held her niece tighter. Sansa wiped her eyes and sniffed, "Will you sing me the dragon song?"

All she could do was try.

" _Go north, go north_  
 _with wings on your feet._  
 _Go north with the wind_  
 _where the three rivers meet..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've made it through one season, now onto another. Any predictions or wishes about what might happen in the upcoming chapters? BTW thanks for sticking around guys!


	19. Seventeen

A magpie sat on Anya's windowsill. The black and white bird was looking into her chambers silently. It's black beady eyes never leaving the bed in which she lay, curled up. Dreading this day more than the last. She hadn't slept soundly in over a week.

"One for sorrow, two for joy,  
Three for a girl, four for a boy,  
Five for silver, six for gold,  
Seven for a secret, never to be told.  
Eight for heaven, nine for hell,  
Ten when you sing to the devil himself."

It was ill luck to disregard a single magpie, it was one of the oldest wives' tales she could remember hearing. She could no longer believe in any kind of luck or gods for that matter. They had all abandoned her. Anya picked up the empty wine glass that laid next to her bed and threw it at the bird. When the glass hit the stone wall it shattered and the magpie took flight.

A seamstress presented her with a dress of crimson made from fine silks and velvets to be worn for the king's name day tournament with a golden belt. Two handmaidens had come to dress her as well. She knew well the game that was being played, the Lannisters wanted to strip away her identity as a Stark. Both she and Sansa were the queen and Joffrey's playthings to torment.

Myrcella smiled when she saw that Anya would be joining them for her brother's name day tournament. She had become oddly fond of the misplaced Stark much to her mother's dismay. The little princess was a reader and even before Ned's neck was snipped, Anya would find herself in Myrcella's presence while she read. If some books were too wordy for a child of her age, the Whent girl would do her best to describe them. It was a peculiar thing to see so much of her younger self trapped inside a Lannister princess.

Many of the men who had participated in the Hand's Tourney had gone off to war, that left only a handful of men capable of putting on a grand show for the king. After four drawn out matches he was clearly bored with the occasion. Joffrey waved Sandor to him, he had stood resolutely behind the king and his company holding his hound head helm, "Go Dog, I'm tired of these petty knights not drawing blood." He went obediently.

Sandor fought and won and three men had lost their lives for the amusement of a mad king. The last opponent hadn't been struck down by the Hound, it was the fall that killed him. And the crowd clapped and cheered. Joffrey looked on bemused as the drug away from the fallen knight and doused water to dilute the bloody trail his body left behind. "Well struck, Dog!" He turned back to Sansa, "Did you like that?"

Sansa glanced at her aunt, but Anya could only nod, urging her to give the sadistic boy a response, "It was well struck, your grace." She was still of a tender age and knew not of the horrors the world could hold, she knew nothing of battle and strategy. _I fear soon you will have to learn, Sansa_.

"I already said it was well struck," he sneered.

Sansa hardly met his gaze while replying with an indifferent, "Yes, your grace."

The herald extended his right arm, "Lothor Brune, free rider in the service of Lord Baelish." The man stepped out in his mismatched armor, the same he had worn when Jory rode against him in the Hand's Tourney, _why did they have to take you away too, Jory?_ "Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard," he was not to be found. "Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard!"

"Here I am!" The fat knight came stumbling down the stairs from above the pavilion, yet Anya never looked in that direction, for all the hatred in her heart she watched Sandor Clegane as he returned to the stand next to the king's marquee, next to her as she sat behind Tommen and Myrcella.

"You can't!" Sansa's cry drew her attention back to Joffrey and the fat knight. He was being drowned with a cask of wine. Myrcella trembled in her seat and Tommen looked away with a quivering bottom. "I only meant that it would be bad luck to kill a man on your name day." _You're learning, little bird_ , the lie was so prettily spoken that it almost sounded like a whole truth.

Anya nudged Sandor's leg with her elbow out of desperation to protect her sweet niece. He looked down at her and then directed his attention to the boy king and the newest subject of his torment. _"_ The girl speaks truly," the Hound rasped. "What a man sows on his name day, he reaps throughout the year." His voice was flat, as if he did not care a whit whether the king believed him or no, but the supplement was enough to pacify Joffrey. Ser Dontos collapsed onto hands and knees heaving up the wine. Having seen enough for the day Anya excused herself and swept past the Hound and back into the keep.

She wasn't sure if was still night or if the morning had already come, all she knew was that the wine, mead, and rum had thoroughly numbed her and it still wasn't enough. She hated feeling weak. She hated feeling helpless. Still, she had Sansa and while with her niece she had to be the strong, unwavering figure, yet away from her, she was anything but. "Are you trying to drink yourself to death?" It was a rasping voice paired and a large figure casting a long shadow that stirred her from her stupor.

Sandor Clegane looked down at where Anya sat, huddled between two casks of ale, in front of her was a nearly empty rundlet of what appeared to be Dornish strongwine, "If I am?" She sounded like a completely different person. Her voice lacked resolve, her eye didn't shine. King's Landing had done this to her. He forgot the reason he had come to the cellars the moment he saw her there and he stood still as a statue waiting for her to say something else.

Anya Whent cracked and let the held back tears slip freely down her cheeks, "You wouldn't let me go to him," she looked down at the empty goblet that had been refilled over the night half-a-hundred times. "You held me back from saving my _brother_ ," he stared down at her with a blank expression and she continued and her words cut him in a way he had not expected, "and then as I sat there in grief and shock you picked up his bloody head and held it for the crowd to see like it was some fucking prize."

"Every night when I try to sleep I witness it all over again." _Only I dream of killing them all. The people who condemned him, the queen and her bastard son, and you, Sandor Clegane_. Anya finally met his harsh stare yet she could hardly bear to be in his presence for a moment longer. "Leave me," it was meant to be a command but it came out more like a fading whisper.

He laughed, though it was unlike all the other times she had heard him howling in the taverns, this was humorless and sardonic, "Dwelling on the dead ain't going to bring them back, girl." She knew that well enough, _I carry the curse of Harrenhal in my blood_ , _everyone I love dies_.

Anya rose with her blood boiling in rage. "I said LEAVE!" She threw the goblet of wine in her hand, it hit the wall next to the door and fell to the ground with a _clank_. He left, wordlessly, as a kicked dog would do _. He's the only person in this city I can trust and now I've turned him away_. And she drank until the world went black.

When dawn broke she was back in her chambers, lying in bed with the rough spun blanket draped over her.

Rana helped her dress in of deep green velvet, with a high neck and wide draping sleeves over a thin gold brocade underdress. Her hair was left undone, somehow it matched the redness that she had worn under her eyes since her brother's death. Her chambermaid offered a cup was watered wine but she politely declined and left for the evening.

Her new chambers in Maegor's Holdfast were not nearly as spacious as the Tower of the Hand had been. She and Sansa had been uprooted from their chambers just two days after what had occurred on the steps of Baelor. She crossed the courtyard and stopped for a moment to looked up at the expanse of the red stone tower. It had never felt like a home.

She was greeted in a terse manner by the posted guards but carried on. Tyrion had settled into the largest bedroom chamber, some of her brother's belongings were stacked in a corner still. It was torture to look upon the empty bed where she had tended his wounds so diligently. Despite everything she smiled, the indubitability of it was surprising to even herself. "Lord Tyrion, I must say it is refreshing to have people of intelligence to converse with."

"Indeed," he chuckled.

"Thank you for inviting me to sup with you," she was a proper lady and would remember her courtesies.

His mismatched eyes were even more prominent in the candlelight. "The pleasure is all mine." Tyrion gestured towards his other guest if he could be called that. "May I introduce Bronn," at first glance she could tell he was a sellsword, with a keen liking for gold and a wolfish smile but not without a certain type of charm. He was cleaning his nail beds with a dagger, feet propped up on a smaller table closer to the balcony.

"Pardon my curiosity, but I saw the Hound carrying you back to your chambers this morning," her cheeks reddened and a twinge of guilt swept over her. She opened her mouth to speak but words would not come, Tyrion waved off the question and brought her further into the room where her brother once stayed.

Anya sat across from Tyrion, looking down at the blood red liquid that filled a golden goblet. Her stomach twisted into knots, _Lannister colors_. The Imp could not help but pity the trapped wolf. Among their brief meetings at Winterfell, one thing had always stood out, her eyes; traditional of the Starks in every way yet somehow they didn't belong in the North. Now those lovely eyes had dimmed and grown hollow. "King's Landing does not agree with you." _The North, however, does_ , he thought.

"You're right, it doesn't," her voice was sharp and filled with bitterness. "It didn't agree with my brother either," she added as an afterthought.

Tyrion refilled his wine glass and reached for another warm brown roll, "If Joffrey had been born as a Targaryen it is plain to see which side of the coin landed facing upward," he mused aloud.

"He's your nephew," Anya pointed out.

"Regrettably. And soon he is to be your kin too if the betrothal between him and Sansa is still on favorable terms." She took a hesitant bite of the lamprey pie and nearly gagged, she had yet to acquire a taste for the richly flavored pie. Tyrion leaned forward and pushed the platter of cornish game hens, roasted with lemon and cracked pepper, towards her. There were roasted beets, onions, and green beans to pair with the roast hen. The Imp watched amusedly as she tried to use the flatware to properly cut the chicken but soon gave up and tore off a small leg with her hands.

The Whent girl looked down at the destroyed chicken carcass and suddenly bile rose in her throat as she remembered the sight of her brother's head rolling down the steps of Baelor, "'The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.' That's what my brother used to say. Joffrey's fascinated by the power like it's some sort of game yet he's still not out of the age where it's fun to tear the wings from flies." _Or cutting unborn kittens from their mother's womb_ , the Imp thought. "Now he's amusing himself by tearing heads from men. Too young to fear or even imagine death, but he doesn't hesitate to distribute it to those around him." Anya ran her finger around the rim of the wine glass and it sang with a low-pitched hum.

"You speak so eloquently and elegiacally, my lady." _Now I see why they call you silver tongue_ , she waved off his compliment with disinterest, "Please, Tyrion, spare me from all the fucking propriety shit."

Bronn snorted in amusement. Both Tyrion and Anya glanced over at the sellsword, he shrugged, "Never heard a high-born lady swear before."

"I'd get used to it," she smiled against the cool metal of her wine goblet.

"I quite like her," his grin was lascivious and she held his gaze for several long seconds until a hand servant came between them with a platter of dessert. Iced blueberries with sweet cream was the final course of the meal and by far Anya's favorite. She had a knack for sweet things and carnal pleasure. Pointless conversation did not persist between Anya and Tyrion other than the exchange of a few lecherous jokes, though neither could present a better one than Bronn. Anya blushed so prettily and even Tyrion's eyes went wide after hearing it.

All three slipped into a prolonged silence, it wasn't until her sixth cup of wine did she dare ask the question that had been on the tip of her tongue since she saw the dwarf at Joffrey's name day tournament. "Tell me, truly, did you try to kill Bran?"

He was momentarily taken aback, but Tyrion took her hand into his own and shook his head with a slow surety, "No, my lady, and that is the truth, I swear it." She believed him, if not for the sincerity of his tone then it was for the way his mismatched eyes shone in the candlelight, glistening from the wine. Anya did not know if it was appropriate to say anything else, she could only nod but the lump in her throat did not go away. He turned to his sellsword friend, "See Lady Anya safely to her chambers."

Bronn was nothing short of cocksure and made for poor company. They did not speak. The halls of the holdfast were dimly lit by sconces and moonlight, shadows danced along the walls. Anya knew who the hulking figure at the opposite end of the hall was at first glance and half contemplated if she should say anything to him. Bronn's hand hovered over the hilt of his sword when he saw it was the Hound.

Sandor passed by them, she could feel his harsh gaze burning into her. "Don't think that one likes me much," Bronn sounded far too joyous about being out of the Hound's favor. Anya stopped and turned back, his name was on her lips but he didn't even spare her a second glance. "Something going on between the two of you?" Bronn asked in a quizzical tone.

 _Why do I want to say yes_? She gritted her teeth and tried not to think of the times he stuck his neck out for her, all the nights they had spent at the tavern, the time he had taken her to godswood, and how he held her back when Ilyn Payne unsheathed Ice to execute her brother. Anya shook her head and gave the sellsword an unconvincing smile, "No," her tone said otherwise.


	20. Eighteen

"Thank you." The little princess clutched the book Anya had handed her down from the ladder to her chest. It was the first day of the new week and that meant she would spend time in the library with Myrcella, and Tommen if he chose to come too.

"You're very welcome, Myrcella." Anya settled in on a mound of goose-down pillows that had been brought into the library per the princess's request. It was their nook, nestled away in a corner where throughout the day the sun shone through the windows perfectly and at night the moon's silver rays could illuminate the words on each page.

Myrcella had picked a more adventurous book detailing the adventures and deeds of Dunk and Egg, Anya had chosen a lengthy tome about dragons. For quite some time they each read in their respective books but the little princess commonly grew restless after the first hour. "What is your favorite book?" She had once asked about Winterfell and the Wall, if White Walkers were real and what it was like to live in the North.

Anya closed her own book and set it aside, she pretended to contemplate which of the many books she had read could be her favorite but none could parallel to the worn book she had taken from Harrenhal. "A History of Harrenhal, I can't remember the author, though." The title was no longer legible either, the leather cover was so worn she was almost scared to hold it. The letters had been scuffed away by her own hands.

The little princess shuddered, "That place frightens me." Anya laughed, it had frightened her as a child too. "Any person with half a mind should fear Harrenhal to some degree."

"What happened after it was burned?" Anya had never met a more curious child than the princess.

 _A curse that has lasted for over almost three centuries_. "Ill-luck and more destruction. Every house that has ever claimed Harrenhal as their seat have suffered from what people think to be a curse. Tragedy befalls them in inconceivable ways. House Harroway fought in the Battle Beneath the Gods Eye and it was burned even more in the Dance of Dragons under Lord Strong." Anya could have delved into much greater detail of the events yet she knew the princess was not keen on hearing the tales of battle. She still dreamed of knights, courtly love, and of songs.

"Wouldn't you have liked to have seen it in its glory? Imagine towers that climb into the sky and a great hall so large nearly everyone in the Riverlands could have a place at the table. And the godswood, an ancient grove, whose branching trees had never known the desecrating ax. Oh, to have seen its grandeur before Balerion's flames marred it." Myrcella expression had faded into one of awe, she like so many others, forgot to realize that once Harrenhal was not a ruined fortress, it was a great castle that stood above the open planes that surrounded it. _One day Harrenhal will be mine, by force if need be, and it shall no longer be the cursed castle_.

Midday had come and gone, soon one of the Septa's would come in search of Myrcella for her lessons. Anya marked the page the princess had been on and put the book away for the next session, she tucked the one she had been reading under her arm.

Joffrey and Sandor were in the courtyard where Tommen sat astride a pony with a small lance to strike against a wooden target. When the boy failed his brother's mocking laughter filled the air. The master-at-arms and his lady wife both resettled Tommen on the horse and gave him a lighter lance. Disinterested in the affair the boy stalked off, "Come along, Dog." Joffrey passed his sister and Anya without paying them a second glance, his loyal dog following on heel.

"I don't like when people call him that," Myrcella's voice was hardly above a whisper, she spoke as if she were telling Anya a dark secret or admitting something one would be ashamed of. "Nor do I." She wondered if he hated to be called that as well.

Myrcella glanced up at Anya with the same jade eyes as her mother as they came to the place where their paths differed, "He's always been nice to me. I used to call him Sanda." An ache seized her heart at the girl's words, she couldn't begin to explain why either. "Will we meet again next week?"

She nodded, "Of course, now run along to your lessons."

As night settled over the Red Keep, Anya dared to test the limits of the queen regent's benevolence. For weeks she had remained trapped within the red walls as any good prisoner would have done, though now she was desperate to see outside of the castle walls. "And where does the proper little lady go at this hour of the night?" Anya stopped in her tracks and cursed herself for not wearing a cloak. Bronn was facing the red stone wall of one of the castle's battlements, shaking off the last drops of piss before righting himself.

Anya shrugged, "Would you believe me if I said to pray?" Bronn laughed and gave her a crooked smile. " _The Laughing Thief, best mug of mead you can get in this shithole of a city_." The exchange didn't last much longer than that, if he meant to report her whereabouts to anyone he was in no haste to do so, in truth she doubted he cared.

The Whent girl picked up her skirts and slipped behind the tower walls and into one of the secret passages that Maegor the Cruel that built into the castle and city. Her lantern was dim, the flame flickered weakly in the damp air and gravel crunched under her slippered feet. Rats scampered away from the light and water dripped from the low, rough ceiling. The only thing that made it worse was the smell, but it only smelled like the rest of the city.

She hadn't seen him, but she had felt him when they collided. He seized her arms to stop her from falling or to force her back, she didn't know which it was. What little light was cast upon his face only shone on the mass of twisted flesh around his eye. He smelled of wine and the heavy, cheap perfume that would have belonged to a whore. "Sandor." Anya winced as the grip on her arms tightened but she would not look away from him.

He hated her for being able to look him in the eyes without fear or disgust. He hated her for a lot of things. "You shouldn't leave the Keep," he rasped. The brown of his eyes was nearly black in the tunnel but she could see him scanning over her face, his gaze finally settling on her parted lips. For a moment, she thought he meant to kiss her in his drunkenness; though, by far the most frightening thing was that Anya half-wished he would.

"Is that all you have to say to me?" The evenness of her question unnerved him, he pushed her away and continued on his way without saying another word.

The customers of the tavern who knew Anya rejoiced when they saw her walk through the doors and sit down at the table she and Sandor always occupied during their visits. She was too silent for their liking, her eyes weren't shining either. They all seemed to know she wished to be alone.

Gerrad Hills brought a tankard of mead and sat it in front of her, she slid two coins for him to take and drank in silence with clouded thoughts and a churning stomach and no amount of laughter or drink could lighten her spirits.

-

The Whent girl strode into the hall from her niece's empty chambers. She and Sansa were to break their fast together in her rooms, to which Anya had just discovered was empty, even Shae was nowhere to be seen. With fury blazing in her eyes she went to the closest Lannister guard and pushed a man a head taller back against the stone wall.

She had to restrain herself from taking the man's sword and opening his throat, "Where is she? Where is Sansa Stark?" Though the little Lady was unarmed a fear like no other came over the Lannister guard, he saw the wrath of a mother in her steel colored eyes.

"The king commanded her presence," the fury did not die down as she rushed down the halls of the Red Keep to the Great Hall. Anya had taken the path through the small council chamber and emerged from the side room as the little prick who called himself king commanded his ladylove to be beaten for actions she had no part in, "Leave her face, I like her pretty."

Sansa had squeezed her eyes shut, awaiting the first strike, yet it never came. She dared to open her eyes, standing before her was her aunt with a hand wrapped around Ser Meryn Trant's wrist with a type of strength that no one in the room had expected to come from such a well-mannered lady, "If you lay a hand on her, Meryn Trant, then this will be the last day you have hands." The other members of the Kingsguard rested their hands on the hilt of their swords, ready to draw them if need be, all but the Hound moved.

"You dare relieve me of my duty!" The false knight turned to look at his king, Joffrey quirked a brow and nodded. It was command enough for Meryn Trant to draw back his hand and strike Anya across the face. It had been armor that struck her skin and already she felt her lip bleeding. She righted herself and was only able to dodge one blow when he withdrew his sword and slammed the jeweled pommel into her shoulder and then into her face again. Anya knew that this was not the time to fight back, not here, not now.

The Whent girl fell to her hands and knees, Sansa was crying, but she was too dizzy to stand again. Trant ripped at the material of her dress and when she tried to stand again he crashed the sword's pommel against the back of her head. " _Enough_ ," a voice rasped. Sandor stepped down off of the dais having seen enough of the senseless display when the Hand of the King entered the room, demanding explanations.

The Hound's actions went unnoticed by most of the court when he pulled the white cloak of the Kingsguard from his shoulders and placed it around Anya's shaking form, he pulled her up but by the time she was looking up at him and standing on steady feet, Sansa and Tyrion were leading her away. If she had once dreamed of gallant knights and fair ladies then she would have known the significance of the action, but Anya Whent did not look back and Sandor Clegane could not take his eyes from her.

The sitting room and bed chambers were abnormally dark for the morning hours, the young serving girl, Rana was quick to set aside the fresh bed linens and draw back the curtains, light poured in through the windows. Tyrion led the Whent girl to the settee, Sansa fetched the glass of wine that Rana had made and passed it to her aunt. "Your devotion is admirable but it'll get you killed," the Imp had taken a glass of wine as well, the golden cup appeared too large for his hands yet he drank all the same.

"Then so be it," Anya's voice was dry, she looked down at the wine when Sansa seized her arm. The little Lady glanced at Sansa to see a pleading face of one who had endured and lost so much at such a tender age.

"You're all I have here in this place, don't speak of such things," the Whent girl noted it was the first time Sansa had acted in such a way towards her. The eldest Stark girl had never shown a strong liking towards Anya, there were times she told the old Septa and her lady mother that she wasn't a lady, if she were then she would not be in the yard sparring with her brothers and other men. Since the death of Eddard Stark much had changed, Sansa saw Anya in a new light. Anya Whent knew how to maneuver around King's Landing and play the great game, she had kept them alive thus far and had protected her.

"I have no intentions of leaving you, little bird," through a broken lip and bruised cheek, Anya managed to smile. The endearment that Sandor called Sansa had grown on her if only for the truth of it. She was a little bird. A little bird that was in the lion's den.

Tyrion remained in her company until the afternoon when Cersei had demanded his presence, Sansa would not leave her side until nightfall. Once alone she dared to look at her face and the mirror hid nothing. The daughter of Walter and Shella Whent ached badly, but the worst ache was in her cheek. She held the looking glass up, ghosting trembling fingers along the swollen patch of skin. It had discolored throughout the day, spreading to her temple and around her eye. She was given ice by Lord Tyrion, it did nothing but numb the area for a short amount of time, even the strong Dornish wine could not quell the pain and she did not trust the sweetsleep or dreamwine that had been offered to her.

Anya had lost track of the time, she sat on the windowsill, looking over the gardens and courtyards of the Red Keep and what she could see of the city and Blackwater Bay. The water was dark. She wondered if it would be welcoming or if it would stab at her and burn like the Northern lakes and rivers. _Nothing burns like the cold, but only for a little while_. The ground was far below her if only she had enough courage to fall. _I could be with my brothers again, and Jory, my sweet Jory_.

A harsh knock on the door startled her, but she righted her nightgown and called for the visitor to enter. A dark figure that had to duck to enter through her door stood straight, "Little rose," the Hound looked at the woman as she sat perched on the windowsill, knees pulled to her chest. A palette of black and blue on her face made it look as if an artist had thrown splotches of paint at a canvas and cared little for the outcome.

Her steely eyes cut through Sandor Clegane's Kingsguard armor like a blunt knife through soft butter. The little Lady stood in silence and went to the chair which she had draped his cloak over, she balled up the material and threw it at him with an expression that caused him to take a stumbling step backward. "Here's your fucking white cloak," Sandor held the cloak like it was the body of someone he had loved. 

Standing straight, the Hound turned without another word and left his little rose in peace, when the door shut behind him he could hear the _click_ of the locks as they slid into place and an odd sensation crept into his chest, seizing his heart as the floral perfume she always wore lingered in the threads of his cloak.

-

Cersei had called upon Anya once more, she may have hated the Whent girl but it was disguised well. In truth, the queen would gladly converse and sup with Anya Stark if it meant not having to face Lollys Lackwit and her hag of a mother. Tommen and Mrycella were playing come-into-my-castle in the courtyard below the balcony where they sat sharing brunch. Anya swirled the purple wine in its glass before taking a long sip. "She's a very sweet girl." _And a better person than you could ever hope to be_.

The queen glanced up from her half-eaten apple pastry and took her own glass of wine in hand. "My daughter has grown very fond of you," it pained Cersei to make the admission. She had tried to explain to her girl that treachery was a noxious disease of the blood and given the chance it would spread. After the hours Myrcella had spent with Anya in the library, she could not believe what her mother had told her.

"The little princess likes to read, we share that in common." She had grown fond of both Myrcella and Tommen, they were gentle children and kind souls, so unlike their parents.

Cersei held out her wine glass, the page boy stepped forward and refilled it. "Should I truly send her off like this? Even you must know what is said of the Dornish." It was odd that the queen would ask for her solace.

Anya bit her tongue and reconsidered what she was about to say, although the queen treated her well enough for a hostage, she was walking on thin ice that had long been cracked. "The strongest alliances are rooted in marriage. Myrcella may very well grow to love Trystane, for her happiness I hope she does. It will not be ease as a mother, but as the queen regent," she paused and nodded, reassuring herself of the words she spoke, "-it is a good match."

The queen laughed, a mocking gesture no doubt, "What do you know of a mother's hardship, Lady Anya?" Cersei's eyes hardened and scorn took root in her voice.

"I have no children of my own, but I have my brother's children. I loved all of them as if they were my own and perhaps it is wrong of me to be fonder of one more than another but..." one side of Cersei's lip curved upward, "The bastard on the Wall?" _Jon_. She had not received word from the Wall since the raven that had come bearing the news of Benjen's disappearance. Even now she could not believe that her brother was gone. But Jon, her dear Jon whom she had fallen in love with, at first sight, he was in the harsh and unforgiving realm of the North.

"Catelyn hated him, so much she sent away the wet nurse after Robb had no need of one. I drank atrocious brews of tea so I could produce mother's milk. The moment he took my nipple into his mouth to suckle I knew the boy was like my own. And I watched him ride north to the Wall, one of the harshest places in this world. That was one of the hardest things I've had to do in all my years, but I let him go because I knew it was for the best." _Please let Jon be safe, let him live so I may see him once more_.

Cersei's gaze was drawn to the welt on her cheek that had discolored almost half her face, she found it to be a cruel type of irony if the rumors of her and the Hound were to be believed. "Mother's will do anything for their children." _And I will do anything to protect my brothers_. Cersei diverted her eyes away from Anya and looked into the distance, taking a generous gulp of wine, "Yes," she conceded. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! I need you to be honest with me, do you think Anya and Sandor's relationship is moving too slowly? I believe it'll progress more in the next few chapters but I just wanted to get your opinions on the subject matter. Thanks for sticking around! XOXO


	21. Nineteen

It was dusk when Anya pulled up the hood of her cloak and set out towards the gates of the Keep. She was nearly to the gate when hooves clacked on the cobble behind her. A thousand excuses for her clandestine actions rushed through her mind as she turned to face whoever had ridden her down. A sigh of relief came over her when she saw Stranger and his rider. Sandor extended his hand for her to take. "Are you coming? Or are you just going to stand there?"

She placed her hand in his and he pulled her on the saddle in front of him. The guards at the gate let them pass with no inquiries.

"Where are we going?" He did not answer so she did not ask again until they were nearing the slums of Flea Bottom. Anya craned her neck back and caught a second's glance at the unscarred half of his face, he looked oddly calm. "Where are you taking me?"

"Rhaenys's hill," he rasped. The streets of Flea Bottom were desolate at this hour of the night. Only a handful of people had even seen them pass by, most of the ones who did had been dumping their chamber pots in the streets from the open windows of their shanty homes. Anya covered his nose with her cloak, thankful that it still smelled of her perfume. The hill loomed over the slums, large and dark with its cavernous top and scorched stone.

"The Dragonpit," Anya whispered as she ran her hand over the melted stone and ascended the crumbling stairs behind Sandor. The Dragonpit's huge done had partially collapsed within and its bronze or iron doors, it was impossible to tell which it was any longer, had been sealed for more than a century. It was a ruin, blackened by fire, like Harrenhal. The rusted chains on the doors gave way when Sandor struck them with the pommel of his longsword. He pushed the heavy door in and dust filled the air, the silvery streams of moonlight were polluted with it.

Even in its ruin, she could not deny the grandeur and awe of the structure. It once would have had vaulted ceilings with ornate pillars, and dragons. Oh, how she longed to see a dragon that was more than dust and bones or lines on a page. Anya silently wandered about, sadness and joy had overcome her.

Some of the skulls were so large she could stand straight in the empty cavity, she suspected those had been some of the ones to adorn the throne room of the Red Keep before Robert's reign. Others were small enough that they would have scarcely been larger than Tommen's cat. She wandered through the bone field and felt a surge of sadness grip her heart. _If only I could see a dragon, a real live dragon, then perhaps I could die happy_ , but there were no dragons in the world anymore. The last one had died a century before her birth.

Anya sat amongst the rubble and brought her knees to her chest, she looked like a small child among the buttresses that had fallen in and the large skulls that had been cast into the ruins. Even the fading blue bruises on her cheek made her look childlike in a strange way. She knew he had meant well by bringing her here but there was nothing but death and destruction within the ruined arena, "Why did you bring me here?"

Sandor shrugged as if he didn't have an answer or was simply hesitant to speak the reason. After a moment he spoke and her heart leaped, "You like dragons."

She wandered around the desolation. At the opposite end of the large arena was a heap of ashes and bones that were too small and straight to belong to a dragon. Something cracked under her heel, she whisked back her skirts to see a shattered skull, a child's skull. Bile rose in her throat as she remembered the history of the city. The Great Spring Sickness had seen thousands die and with no place to bury them they were piled into the Dragonpit and burned, the books said that the entire city was alight with the green glow of wildfire.

The lower level had large cells with thick iron bars and steel curtains bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Relics of an age long past. Vast irons collars and chains were cooked around what was left of the supporting pillars. Two even had where a dragon had lain to die. The thick bones of their necks still laid within the balanced collars. It could have been Shrykos, Tyraxes, or even Morghul whose bones she looked upon, all had been slain when the smallfolk stormed the pit during the Dance of Dragons. A shimmering stone of blue caught her eye, but when she scooped it up with both her hands for a closer look she saw it wasn't a rock at all or a bone for that matter. It was rough, like leather, but as hard as steel, "A dragon scale!"

The floor gaped open in one of the corners of the largest holding cell, curious Anya descended into the dark depths toward a glowing green light. "Wildfire." _Only a mad man would store wildfire with dragons_. She came upon barrels and rough clay jars that contained the substance, but the most startling discovery was the oversized stone vat that contained the volatile liquid. The heavy footfalls of Sandor startled her from the thought. There was fear in his eyes, even if he tried to hide it.

"The Mad King had caches of wildfire hidden all over the place when we came to sack city," he said while Anya picked up one of the small jars and held it against the glow of the opened vat, there was hardly any dust on it nor on any of the other jars and barrels. She shook her head, nothing added up. A war was coming, yes, but wildfire had not been used in battle for an age.

"These jars haven't been here since then. There's not nearly enough dust on them," Anya returned the jar to its place among jars that lined stone ledges and jumped when Sandor placed his hand on her shoulder, "It's best if we be getting back little rose." He hoisted her up onto Stranger's back and mounted behind her, leaving the shadow of the Dragonpit behind.

For the time her anger toward him had died down to become almost nonexistent, and as much as she was loathed to admit, having his strong chest behind her head was a comfort that reminded her of home, of Benjen, Brandon, and Ned. She clutched the blue scale in her hand and unabashedly leaned back into Sandor. After he was certain she had fallen asleep he even allowed his arm to wrap around her waist to hold her closer. She was a rose, pretty and delicate with thorns hidden beneath and he had foolishly gripped the stem.

-

"Ladybird ladybird, fly away home. Your house is on fire and your children are gone," Petyr Baelish had yet again manifested at her side, coming from nowhere, in particular, his singsong voice sent chills crawling down her spine.

Anya carried on her way, only greeting him out of courtesy, "Lord Baelish," her tone was terse, her face irritated.

Littlefinger made a queer noise as he took in the bruised half of her face. A terrible mark that could almost make her ugly. "A hound and a wolf. That is what many are saying in these castle walls," he chirped the gossip back up like a mockingbird, a fitting sigil for his made up house. Anya cared little for the gossip that was spread around the court, if any of it was to believed then Robb had become a skin changer and Podrick Payne had a magical cock.

She gritted her teeth with tried patience, "Then you should learn to believe only half of what you see and nothing that you hear." Those had been the words she lived by in this horrid city and it had kept her alive thus far. Her own gut instincts had not led her astray.

The amused smirk that graced his sharp features unnerved her, "If the honorable Eddard Stark had followed in your tracks perhaps he would still have a head," he had meant the jest as a compliment no doubt, but it did not stop the scab from being peeled off a wound that had yet to heal.

Anya's outburst was something Littlefinger had not expected, she shoved him against the closest stone pillar and pressed her forearm against his throat with all her strength _. Ned should have choked the life out of you, snake_. "Don't ever presume to insult my brother in front of me." He pressed against her arm but she was like a rock, unmoving and unrelenting. It gave her joy to hear his wheezing breaths. _You're one of the reasons my brother lost his head. House Baelish is built upon betrayal, treachery, lies_.

"Lady Anya," she ignored the call of her name and pressed her arm against Petyr's throat even harder. Seeing him fail to move her arm provided a sick sense of satisfaction, it felt good to see him squirm. She didn't want justice, it was revenge she wanted. "Lady Anya," the rasping voice was closer now, soon Sandor would pry her away from Littlefinger.

She waved him away, "Not now, I'm a little busy at the moment."

"The queen requests your presence," he persisted and reluctant she stepped away from Petyr, his hand instinctively went to his throat. Her eyes were still burning with rage, his were smiling for some strange reason as he slipped away. "He's not someone you want as an enemy," she heard the Hound say.

"Then I should have slit his throat and spared myself the future trouble," she swept past Sandor to attend Cersei's beck and call. He stood rooted in place for a moment upon realizing that she had been serious and perhaps he had not intervened to speak the queen's request she would have choked the life from the Master of Coin without a second thought. There was a beast lurking behind the pretty face of his little rose and it craved blood and vengeance.

-

Anya did not stand near Sansa or Joffrey, she stood next to Tommen as Cersei was inept to council him in her own sadness. "Shhh, Tommen. No tears, your sister is brave. It's not goodbye," she handed him a linen handkerchief, sniffling, he wiped away the tears and snot, "you'll see her again."

They looked onward until she was aboard the ship that would deliver her to Dorne. The riot had begun so quickly, Anya hardly remembered what could have caused it. She thought someone had thrown a pile of shit at Joffrey and that was what had triggered it all, but then it could have been the threats and shouts that were directed at the royal party as they walked through the streets and back to the Red Keep.

The little Lady struggled to remain near Sansa as chaos erupted around them. Royal guards had begun cutting down civilians without a quarrel or qualm. A hand had pulled back on her curls and when she had pulled away from the man Sansa had disappeared. Anya tried to follow where she might have ran but her niece was gone. A multitude of hands and arms seized her body and no amount of fighting could overpower the men who had taken her.

The ally was away from the main street, it would take hours for anyone to find her and by then she would likely be dead. "She'll be a right good fuck," the man that had spoken was grotesque, having only one eye and hardly any teeth, he was bald and reeked of sewage and ale. Anya ran forward, taking her chances of being able to knock them out of the way and run but all she managed was a scream when her hair was yanked back. "Hold her down," one grunted.

Anya kicked at the man who had spread her legs, ripping at her skirt and undergarments. The man who was not holding her arms down clawed at her breasts, ripping the pale blue silk down the middle. She gasped and kicked hard when greedy hands descended on her breasts, clawing and marking until the skin was near purple. She squirmed, cried, and fought until one of the men pulled out a makhaira.

The point dug into her cheek and she could feel the flesh tear and warm blood run down her face but seeing the small knife was enough to make her hope. In a moment of deception, she fell slack, appearing to have given into her fate but it was all it took for her to kick out and in surprise all the men released her. The man that had been between her legs barely had time to stuff his cock back in his breeches.

She had only ever killed one man before, she was thirteen and off riding outside the walls of Winterfell when it happened. Lord Rickard and Benjen had both told her it was a wildling and that she needn't feel too bad about it. In truth, Benjen was proud of his sister for employing the skills he had been teaching her and it proved to Lord Rickard that she had a spine after all. But now, with five men surrounding her, Anya doubt she could kill them all without being struck down.

The girl had twisted the small knife from its owner's hand and brought it across his throat in a quick slash. The blood splattered across the ground and over her clothing and hands. One of the cravens fled and the remaining four could hardly comprehend the skill and grace which the little Lady moved with. The last one standing was the man who had planned to fuck her first.

His hands wrapped around her throat but she still had the knife, upon plunging the forged iron into his neck his grip fell away and in a panicked rush he tried to stifle the blood spurting from the open wound. The man fell to his knees and then to his back, only twitching but in the moment, and with the anger that still lingered within her, Anya cried out, stabbing the man over and over again. First, it was his heart, then his eyes, and then his stomach several times over until the blood had seeped beneath her knees and down the sloping cobblestone into the main streets.

Her hands shook and as if realizing what she had just done. The knife fell from her hand and _clanked_ as it hit the stone. Her back hit the stone of a building and in a daze, she slid to the ground and cried, but her tears were the color of blood. Anya could not will herself to walk back to the Keep so she waited for someone, anyone, to find her.

It had taken the rest of the day and into the early hours of the night before she was found. Sandor had stumbled across her in one of the alleys, he had almost mistaken her for a beggar whore and moved on until he saw the fine material of the ripped dress the figure wore and recognized it as one of Anya's gowns.

Blood stained her hands and dress, four men lay scattered about around her. Her cheek was bruised, as was the delicate skin around her eye, but there were also bruises on her ankles, wrists, and even on her exposed breast. She cowered back for a moment until seeing the half burned face of her rescuer.

Anya looked up at Sandor, in the moonlight, on this night, she thought him to be the most handsome man she had ever looked upon, even if he still had blood on his face and armor. "It's all right little rose, I've got you now," the rasp in his voice was gentler, with a single harsh tug he pulled the cloak from his back and swathed her in the dark material.

The Hound lifted her into his arms and set her atop Stranger, feebly Anya clutched at the horn of the saddle as he led the black horse through the streets by the reins on foot. "Is Sansa safe?" She looked at him with a great sadness as if she was sure her niece had been raped or killed in the riots. A heavy moment of silence lingered between the two as the imposing walls of the Red Keep crept closer. "Aye, the little bird is in her cage, safe and sound." Sandor could almost feel the wave of relief that washed over her himself. Guards posted at the gates looked down hesitantly at the pair seeking entrance into the castle but raised the portcullis.

A young stable hand took Stranger back to his place among the other horses and Anya found herself in the Hound's arms, his burly arms held her quite gently. Word had already reached the Imp before she arrived at the tower her chambers were situated in. Tyrion had greeted her with pity, a strange expression to receive from such a stunted man. A young serving girl had followed him, as had his sellsword, Bronn. "Draw the lady a hot bath, send for Pycelle, and make a pot of moon tea."

The Whent girl raised her hand dismissively, "None of that is necessary, Lord Tyrion, bruises and scratches will heal," she knew the blood made everything look worse than it actually was.

"But those men who had taken you, you would not want to bear their children," her face flushed red with both anger and embarrassment, for too long she had played the helpless maiden to appease those around her and now the act was coming to a close. She was raised in the North with a dry sense of humor and rough edges, it was time she bared her teeth for King's Landing to see. "And I shall not have too. I killed them all before they could stick their cocks in me," Tyrion Lannister was deathly silent for a long breath before he laughed and she felt the Hound's quiet chuckle reverberate through his armor. The little lord looked back up at the lady and shook his head in a chastising manner, he turned and retreated back into the stone halls.

Had it not been for the great amount of comfort she found within Sandor's arms she would have insisted he put her down to allow her the dignity of walking with a head held high. Her chambers had been relocated from the Tower of the Hand and into one of the main rooms of the Small Gallery and by the time she had been brought to her door, the little Lady was in a light sleep only to be woken by the surprised exclamation from her chambermaid, Rana. "Lady Anya!" The young girl of twelve from Mistwood stood in shock, a pitcher of water clasped within her hands.

In the corner of the room, her bath awaited, still warm by the looks of it, with tendrils of steam curling upwards into the humid air. The Hound had placed her on the settee at the foot of the bed while the maid fretted over her lady until Anya took both her hands in an effort to still their prodding of the bruises. "Don't worry over me, Rana, return to your chambers. I will survive," Rana complied with her Lady's command and when she shut the wooden door behind her Sandor snorted in derision.

"Are you that fucking stubborn?" For a moment Anya looked at the dried blood on her fine dress and the deep crimson that was caked under her nails, painted across her neck and face. "I suppose I am," she offered the answer with a half-hearted smile before slipping the cloak from her shoulders and folding it neatly.

Clutching the bodice of the ruined dress to her chest, Anya neared the bath and tested the temperature before pushing the material from her body and quickly sinking into the water. Sandor shifted on his feet, his eyes turned away from her and out the open window, he turned to leave but the honeyed voice of the little rose spoke to him. "Stay for a few moments, I'm not ready to be alone yet."

If anyone else had issued the gentle command he would have laughed and walked away but for the lady he had just found, he could not deny her wishes. It was odd that he found himself enjoying her company and even odder that he would heed her commands. He took to a chair in the corner of the room near a table and the tub and poured himself a glass of Dornish wine from the crystal decanter.

Anya scrubbed at her arms and face, watching as the water grew to be polluted by the blood and dirt. Saving herself and Sandor the gawkiness of the situation she turned her back to him and looked at the bruises on her breasts, each one more tender than the last.

The Hound could not stop his wandering eyes from looking over to her when water sloshed and lapped at the sides of the copper forged tub, it was then he saw two angry scars that had undoubtedly been caused by a flogging. _Such a pretty thing doesn't deserve to have scars_. When he stood and took three long strides to kneel beside the tub, he questioned why he would even begin to do such a thing, but in silence, he took the sponge and wiped the blood from her back and neck. At first, Anya had jumped at the contact but settled almost immediately when she realized who it was. His touch was reticent and tender, it was as if he thought she would shatter should he be ungentle.

When she felt him trace over one of her scars she pretended not to notice, but then he touched the second with rough hands. "I was nine," she began, mostly to herself as she assumed he would not care to hear of how the two measly scars came to be, "My father had warned me not to speak out at the feast, but one of the lady's said something about one of the servers who was my friend. I defended the girl and that night my father's threats were proven true so he flogged me, two good lashes before my mother came and stopped him," it had been the only time her father had laid a hand on her, but somehow even that was not as bad as enduring the demeaning words. Sandor said nothing, she hadn't expected him to say anything either.

Anya placed her hands on the edge of the bathtub to push herself up but stopped when she saw Sandor take her wrist that had been bruised and was now swollen and sore to the touch. "You should wrap that wrist, little rose," the Whent girl looked at him, burnt face and all, but his expression was blank and there was nothing to dispel what was going on in his thoughts. Anya did not dare look away from him, her eyes were ice, his were steel. "Why did you come looking for me? I know Joffrey or the queen would not be so eager as to have me back here that they would command you to search the city for me." She didn't know what she wanted to hear from him.

The Hound had nothing to say in response, he released the gentle hold he had on her arm and stood, turning his back towards her. Anya stood from the tepid water and found her chemise, she went to him and laid her hand on his arm causing him to turn, "Why did you come for me, Sandor?" She looked like an innocent doe with those wide eyes.

He pulled his arm away from her as if her touch had burned him, "Rest, little rose." Sandor Clegane left her standing in the middle of her chambers, dripping wet with a near sheer gown clinging to her body. He left wishing he could hate her or even just forget about her. But the moment he shut his eyes and willed himself to do either he saw her, smiling, holding a red rose and he knew it would be impossible.  


	22. Twenty

She parried the stroke of his blade and spun away as the second blow was coming to land. The broadsword was heavy in her hand, a harsh reminder that she had not held it since Ned's death. He was a quick opponent, but she was quicker and smaller. Anya's chest heaved with exertion and sweat made the gauzy tunic clung to her.

Bronn's blade nicked her forearm and blood stained a small patch of her sleeve, but he had earned a bloody nose when it had come to a temporary stalemate. It was a harsh affair with no elegance. When she and Benjen had trained with the sword their sparring matches had been akin to a well-rehearsed dance, a real fight was seldom so graceful.

The match came to a close with a silent agreement between both combatants. Bronn sheathed his sword and nodded while regaining his breath, "You fight good for a woman," the accolade must have pained him to say.

"That wasn't a very endearing compliment, Bronn," Anya slipped her blade back into its sheath and sat under the shade of an oak tree, pulling out her own canteen of water, "Just 'you fight good' would have sufficed."

Bronn turned up a wineskin, half laughing. The sellsword wasn't the best company but he was far better than the lot of King's Landing. "Ever went at it with him?" She followed his gaze to where Sandor stood stoically against a wall while the king and the master-at-arms were training with a sword.

She nodded, "Once, when we were traveling south from Winterfell," Bronn looked at her curiously so she continued, "He held back, but I didn't. Had a knife at his balls before it was over." Anya untied the hardened leather vambrace and pulled her sleeve up. The cut had already scabbed over but still she poured tepid water to wash away the blood that had dried.

Anya picked up her bow, she hadn't the heart to even look at the finely crafted weapon that Ned had given her until now. The fletching of the arrows had been turkey feathers dyed blue, she drew one from the bundle, nocked, aimed, and released at a speed even the most trained archers would have trouble matching. It hung in the air for half a second before making a _thudding_ sound as it found the center of the target. Bronn found himself thoroughly impressed with her archery skills.

The target's center was densely packed with arrows and that only sparked a string of improvised and risky targets. First it had been an apple thrown into the air, next was an apple Bronn held in his hand. A fat pigeon that had roosted on a stone bench with a fat worm grasped with its toes. Poor Podrick Payne was even drug into the fiasco as well, he stood trembling against a stone wall with an apple balanced on his head. He had squeezed his eyes shut when she drew back the string of her bow and when he opened his eyes again and arrow had pinned the apple into the mortar of the wall. She and Bronn and both laughed at the way his shoulder's slumped in relief.

There was only one arrow left and no apples. Anya looked around the training yard but her eyes settled on Sandor who stood stock still while Joffrey entertained himself with his crossbow. She only thought about what she was about to do for a second before she had released the last arrow. It embedded in the roundhouse wall, not even an inch from Sandor's left ear.

She leaned against the longbow in triumph. He glared at her from across the way, but when she smiled he had somehow already forgotten the arrow next to his head.

Anya shifted within the copper tub and Rana rubbed a sponge and castile cake of soap over her back. Soon she would smell like roses again, a pleasant scent compared to the acrid smell she had taken on earlier in the day while sparring and the ache in her muscles would fade until morning. "Why do you do that?" Sansa implored looking past her and to the muddy black cloak that hung over a sconce. The garment was far too big to belong to her aunt. Sansa had learned the art of doleful silence and Anya had nearly forgotten she was there.

The Whent girl looked over her shoulder at her niece who sat at her corner table sipping watered wine, dressed like a proper lady with her auburn hair pulled back away from her face, "Do what?" Anya asked in return.

"Fight. You're a _lady_ ," it was an exasperated observation, Sansa looked on the verge of tears yet Anya was clueless on how to offer the girl any consolation. She wanted her mother, but Anya could never fill that part of her life.

"I'm hardly a proper one," just as Anya started to laugh at herself Rana poured a pitcher of water over her head to rinse the soap from long honeyed locks. Bitter suds filled her mouth. She dried quickly and wrapped herself in a pale blue dressing down and sat across from Sansa. "I could teach you, Sansa. House Stark has never shamed women for becoming warriors. Your Aunt Lyanna wielded a sword and a needle." _Though she was far more proficient with a sword_ , Sansa looked down at her uncalloused hands, not wishing to hear what her aunt was saying. She wanted it to be like in the poems and songs, with fair maidens and gallant knights. "The key to it all is maintaining a balance. I do what is expected and required of me due to the family I was born into, yet I do not let it hinder me from partaking in swordplay or archery."

Sansa shook her head, "I don't want to fight. I want to be a _proper_ lady, like my lady mother _._ " _She is her mother's daughter_. Anya turned to her vanity and picked up the mother of pearl comb that her mother had given her, but her hand was shaking. Rana gently took the comb from her lady's hand and began running it through the soft honey strands.

Once Anya was dressed in a tunic and breeches she returned to where Sansa sat, flipping through a book that had been brought from Winterfell. She looked up at her aunt and closed the book before coming to the history of the Wall.

"A white wolf, that was Jory's sigil," Sansa commented. Anya looked down at the deep grey tunic she wore, on the breast was an embroidered wolf head of white and silver thread. One that she had personally made over the course of weeks, her fingers had been pricked by the needle so many times that by the final stitches they no longer bled. She had given it to Jory on his name day, which one she could not recall, but that was a lifetime ago. Winterfell was a lifetime ago.

The girl absentmindedly picked at her dragonfly pendant, "Father always said he fancied you."

A wistful smile crossed Anya's face, "Did he? Benjen told me the same thing once." _Only I was too stubborn to admit that I fancied him as well_.

"You loved him didn't you?" Sansa's question was meek. _Yes, but love makes you weak_ , Anya took a long sip of wine, but it wasn't strong enough to make her forget the memories and emotions that seized her heart and mind, "I don't know what I felt." She had grown so good at lying Sansa believed her with a moment's hesitation, for a brief moment she even believed that herself _. If I would have married it would've been him_. Both Sansa and Anya lapsed into a silence long silence fueled by memories and longing.

They supped on a thick soup of barley and venison, with brown oat bread and a salad of sweetgrass, spinach, and plums, sprinkled with crushed walnuts. Then came dessert, peaches, and honey with thick cream, it had become one of Sansa's favorites in the capital. The trio had only just helped themselves to a spoon full of peaches and a dollop of sweet cream when the knock came. Anya summoned in the person who had knocked on her chamber door and interrupted her and Sansa's meal, obediently, Rana let the gold cloak in. The hair on the back of the Whent girl's neck stood at attention as unease overtook her. "A raven's been received from Winterfell," he announced.

"What news did it bring?" Anya beseeched.

"Theon Greyjoy has taken the castle for the Ironborn," there was no form of sympathy in his voice or expression. Anya remained poised for Sansa's sake upon hearing the news. "There was nothing noted in the letter about Lady Sansa's brothers," the gold cloak left without another word and hysteria overtook her niece.

"Why would he do that?" She wailed, Theon had been raised like a Stark, he was as close to Robb as Jon was. He was a brother, regardless of whether Sansa had been particularly distant with him as of late. Anya frowned, betrayal was the most hurtful type of wound. "What about Bran and Rickon?"

"He wouldn't dare hurt them, Sansa, they're brothers to him," despite her attempt of consolation Sansa still cried, Anya supposed she couldn't blame her.

"We should've never left. We should never have come here. Father would still be alive, Bran and Rickon too." _Jory too, and all the loyal Northmen that Ned had brought with him, most of their remains never even made it back to their families_. The Whent girl quickly wiped away the stray tears that slid down her cheeks and stung the long scab that remained from the bread riot.

Anya placed her hands on the sides of Sansa's neck and knelt before her, "Bran and Rickon are alive," there was not a drop of uncertainty in her tone or eyes, Sansa nodded but still found it difficult to believe. "They're alive, Sansa." She pulled the young girl up and into her arms, a poor substitute for a mother's embrace. Not for the first time since tragedy struck them Sansa stayed in her aunt's chambers for the night, hoping and praying that Robb would come and save them. The sweet peaches had been left untouched.

-

She was improper for company, wearing only her bedgown, yet she opened the door to her chamber's regardless. A young squire that looked to about Pod's age stood stock straight on the other side with a box clasped within his hands. He thrust the package forward, lowering his head to conceal the bright red color that had found its way onto his round cheeks.

“What is this?” she inquired.

“A gift,” the squire boy answered taking a step back.

Anya's brows settled in a deep furrow, “From who?”

The boy had a glint of mischief in his eyes when he looked back at her and replied, “If you have to ask then you already know.” Anya took the oblong box without another question, thanked the squire who had delivered it to her and quickly shut the door.

The Whent girl sat the box down on her bed and looked at it for several minutes, guessing as to what could have been inside and who would have sent it. She slipped off the poorly tied twine and flipped open the lid to reveal a dagger and sheath. It was small and incredibly light, the perfect size for her to throw if needed. The hilt was gold and iron, the pommel encrusted with smoky colored gems that reminded her of the sky before a winter storm. A finely crafted weapon to be given to a hostage.

Rana came soon after the squire had left, the queen had requested her presence for brunch. With each passing day the Lannister's tried to strip the North from her, new dresses mimicked the southern style and colors. She missed the weight of the woolen dresses, dresses in samite and Myrish lace made her feel vulnerable. The blue of the gown was lighter than the color of a clear sky, trimmed with silver embroidery, and delicate white inserts.

She walked the marbled halls in a solemn silence, looking more like a broken doll than a gentle wolf. The queen was in her solar, sipping on a goblet of fresh blood orange juice. Anya took the empty seat across from the queen and took a small bite of the pastry that was placed on her plate.

“That’ll leave a scar,” Cersei noted, looking at the cut that spanned from beneath her eye to her jaw, it had scabbed over since the riot, but even the tenderest of touches could set it to bleeding again. Only yesterday morning she woke with her cheek suck to her bedsheets, it bled even more when the scab was ripped off again. A week had passed since chaos erupted in the streets yet it seemed like the mob had had her only just yesterday.

Anya touched her cheek and the scab, “I thought the same, your grace _._ " _A queen of love and beauty no more_ , had been born with the disfigurement no one would have ever given Anya Whent a second glance. Since youth beauty had always been an ally, now it had forsaken her.

When their strained conversation came to a close and the table was cleared of dishes, the Whent girl swallowed her stubbornness and pride, “May I beg leave of the keep for one night? There is an alcove by the water’s edge beneath the keep that I wish to visit.” Using secret tunnels and doors to visit the tavern at indecent hours of the night was easy, moving through the gardens and by the dock would prove to be impossible with the number of guards stationed along the walls waiting for Stannis.

Cersei's expression became pensive, a mixture of pity and satisfaction, “I cannot let you go alone. It would be a pity if you tried to escape," she queen took a generous slip of a vintage from the Reach to hide the smirk that grew across her lips, “Perhaps I’ll even give you a guard you’re fond of."

Anya lowered her head in thanks and choked up a forced formality, “Your grace is too kind.”

She spent the rest of the day in the library, searching over old texts about the stars and moon. A handful of books detailed how to read the stars and predict someone's fortune, it was a type of magic that the Seven frowned upon, but the Old Gods had been rooted in deep magic, with the Children of the Forest and Giants, and all the other creatures that had been lost in the years. Night soon came and so did her simple meal with Sansa. The little bird at little to say, Cersei was digging her claws into her deeper and deeper with each passing day and the news of Theon's betrayal had taken its toll. Not even the premise of having lemon cakes could bring lighten her spirits.

Anya traded her formal attire for a simple blue shift, her hair was freed from the curled and coiffed style that Rana had fashioned that morning. Not for the first time she found herself sitting in the tower windowsill looking over what she could see of the city and Blackwater Bay.

It should have not shocked her when she opened her bedchamber door and saw Sandor Clegane on the other side, but it did. Anya quickly fetched a cloak and silently led the Hound through the castle and gardens down to the water's edge.

The moon reflected off the Narrow Sea and the stars could be seen in the heavens above and with the same clarity on the rippling water. The sea filled her with longing, though for what she wasn't sure. Waves rolled ashore and broke into white foam around her ankles, but the cool kiss of the water wasn't enough. She waded out into knee deep water and turned her gaze to the heavens.

Tonight there was no stars, only the moon _. If no stars are visible it is an omen of darkness and death_ , she desperately hoped the books were wrong. "What are you doing?" The question was gruff and spoken in haste.

Anya thought on her response, not truly knowing what had caused her sudden desire to come here again. She searched the sky looking for an answer, "watching," came her quiet response.

"For what?" His voice was closer, this time, Anya turned her back to the sea and stepped towards Sandor.

She shrugged and avoided his gaze, "A sign, something, anything." He didn't seem to realize what he was doing until his fingertips ghosted over her cheek, following the scabbed over cut. Anya closed her eyes and relinquished herself to the touch, his name slipped from her lips like hushed prayer, but as soon as she spoke he recoiled and she regretted saying anything at all.

When Anya turned back to face the dark abyss she closed her eyes and tried to remember what it felt like to have Jory's lips against her own, only she couldn't quite remember because now she imagined rougher lips, scarred lips, _his_ lips. A gust of cool air sent shivers crawling down her spine and her cheek burned with the aftermath of the tender touch. A falling star streaked across the dark sky, but she had not seen it.


	23. Twenty-One

“I can have Joffrey’s children now," Sansa's chambers still faintly smelled of smoke from her attempts to burn the evidence of her first moonblood. The queen had wrapped her claws around the little bird first. Within the sanctuary of her own chambers, Sansa was crying into her shaking hands. It was truly a poor time to become a woman.

Anya ran her fingers through the loose waves of Sansa's auburn hair, “My sweet little bird.” She pitied the girl for not having Catelyn present in time such as this. For a long while, Sansa said nothing, she only wiped her nose and dried her eyes.

“You or mother never told me it would be like that," Sansa accused, sniffling.

Dread and guilt came over Anya like the waves that crashed against the rocks far below the keep. She took the girl's hands into her own and tried to make her understand, “You must realize, Sansa, that when your father brought Jon home it was I who mostly cared for him. When we could not find a wet nurse, I drank a tea that Maester Luwin made, he warned me of the future complications but I drank it anyways because Jon needed me to.”

The young Stark wore an expression that looked as if she had just bitten into a tart berry. Sansa was like Catelyn in her disregard for Jon, whenever Arya slipped and named him a brother Sansa was quick to remind her that he was only their bastard half-brother. Yet Anya hoped it would speak to the young mother within her. “I bled when I was three-and-ten every month until I was nearly five-and-ten, I have not bled since then. It is one among many reasons no lord wished to wed me. I hadn't thought to mention it because it's been so long since I've experienced my moonblood, your mother should have been the one to prepare you, but things don't always go according to plan."

Sansa swallowed her displeasure and decorum, "Is it always so bad and messy?" she asked with a shaking voice.

Anya pursed her lips and remembered the first time she bled. She had run to Lyarra Stark crying, afraid that she was dying yet both she and Lyanna offered consolation and assured her that each blood made her stronger _. Women are iron. You are iron, my gentle little wolf, and you are strong_. Anya tipped Sansa's chin up so she could be sure the girl was listening, “The pain should lessen over time, you'll be able to use the moon as guidance to prepare.”

Her smile was weak, as was the nod of affirmation, “The queen said that too.”

The Whent girl sighed and pulled her niece into a long embrace. She needed a mother, she needed Catelyn, but Catelyn Stark was miles away and it took everything for Anya to be a poor substitute, “We’ll get through this,” she assured the young girl, "I promise," she kissed Sansa's forehead. "You are iron, Sansa, and you are strong."

While the morning air was still cool, they walked the gardens and Sansa confided in her aunt about the nightmares. She dreamed over and over that the mod had her, sometimes Sandor would save her in time, others she could not say what happened but Anya knew what things could create such a pallidness in a virgin.

It was only then that she told Sansa about her own dreams. How on many nights she relieved Ned's execution and on others she dreamed of the mod as well, only then it was not of the acts of her captors but her own actions that caused her to wake covered in a cold sweat. If she was lucky she dreamed of Jon and Benjen, and how the three of them were like an odd family, those were good dreams and oft times she wished to never wake from them.

Lunch was served when the sun was at its highest point in the sky, it was a small meal with cod cakes and greens dressed with apples and pine nuts, just enough to tide one over until the main meal of the day.

Anya swirled the dark wine in the faceted glass, she was perched on the windowsill of her niece's room looking out over the Blackwater and Narrow Sea, "Come the night the city will be under siege." Sansa glanced up from her needlework unsurely and frightened, but quickly returned to her stitching. Anya watched as the needle pierced the piece of fabric over and over with a slow rhythm.

In truth, she itched to put the armor that Mott had crafted for her to use, it remained hidden in her chambers, tonight would be her chance to test the craftsmanship and her skills. _Mayhap I'll even get an ounce of justice_. She finished off the glass of wine and returned to her book while Sansa sewed. _May the night come swiftly_.

The doors of Sansa's chambers were thrown open haphazardly. Anya dropped both her glass and book at the shock and Sansa jumped from her seat in alarm. The golden armor of the Kingsguard glinted in the low light of the setting sun, "The king demands your presence." It was obvious who the command had been directed at, Sansa smoothed her skirts and went with the Kingsguard member obediently.

Anya watched from her own tower room, ignoring the call to come join the queen in the safety of Maegor's Holdfast. The dark water was oddly calm and on the horizon, she saw the sails of Stannis Baratheon's fleet. Rana remained with her lady, but her anxiousness was palpable. Anya had opened her mouth to speak words of comfort but a flash of green filled her chambers and then came the deafening roar _. Wildfire_.

The explosion on the Blackwater shook the castle's very foundation. Rana looked from the window with a deathly pale face. Oft times Anya had to remind herself that the handmaiden was only a child. "Go to the Queen's Ballroom, Rana. You'll be safe there." The young girl knew better than to protest against her lady's commands and wishes.

Once alone, Anya retrieved her armor from the hollow back panel of the chestnut wardrobe. Tobho Mott had forged a scaled armor shirt to be worn over mail, shoulder pauldrons, and leg guards. It was all she had requested. Speed and stealth were her greatest allies in a fight, full armor would slow her down. Ranks of gold and red cloaks marched forward. Anya found her place amongst the few sellswords loyal to the crown and fell into their formation. No one even spared a second glance.

Smoke hung thick as heavy perfume in the humid night air, and the water, the water burned with green flames. There were burning ships, and burning men, she could hear their screams. The River Gate opened and men filed out with swords drawn to defend the city against The usurper, Stannis Baratheon.

She cut down Stannis's men just as she did Lannister soldiers. They were all her enemies. For each life she took a surge of sick satisfaction welled within her. _I wish I could be the one to kill you all_. Arrows rained down from the battlement walls, piercing both burning men that had come to shore and those who fought for Joffrey alike. Anya drove her sword through a man's chest, screaming as she pushed his body off the blade. He had been a red cloak, the next belonged to Stannis, and the one after that to the City's Watch. She hacked and slashed, leaving a trail of bodies in her wake.

She had seen a man cleaved in two and the face of another melt away from the skull beneath. Anya drove her sword through the back of one man who was burned, wailing in pain, and pleading with the gods to end his suffering. Bodies covered the ground and the malodorous smells of battle were burned into her senses. Shit, sweat, and piss _. Was that an arm I just stepped on?_ She wasn't sure if it was rain or tears that ran down her cheeks.

It was a poor time and place for realization to wash over her yet it did not stop it from happening. There would be no justice or vengeance gained from the massacre, yet now she had to kill to stay alive. Anya had not felt the impact, but she had seen the arrow shaft and the blood. Her right arm fell limp and her sword hit the muddy ground. She screamed and those around her stopped at the high pitched sound. By luck or the mercy of the gods she had fallen near Lancel Lannister and under the armor and filth he recognized her. He shielded them both from the falling arrows and looked around but they were near surrounded by the enemy.

"Clegane!" Anya had never been so happy to hear that name. She wrapped her hand around the shaft and meant to pull but the young Lannister stopped her. “Seven hells,” the Hound sputtered out when he realized who he was looked at.

"Get her out of here." Sandor scooped her out of the mud and heeded the order, slicing through Stannis's men that blocked the way with only one sword arm. When she glanced back at the battle all she saw were corpses, and Lancel, who was on his knees with an arrow at his chest. She looked away and pressed her face against the cool leather of his dark armor.

The Hound took her to the stables and placed her against a stack of straw. “What were you doing, little rose?”

With a grimace, she pushed herself up and looked down at the arrow shaft that jutted from her shoulder, "I wasn’t going to stay with the queen and her flock of frightened hens.” _I would have killed them, I would have driven my sword in Cersei Lannister's back and laughed as the light faded from her eyes._ Sandor knew that was only half the reason she waded into a battle. He reached forward as if he had meant to press against the bleeding wound but drew back.

“We’re leaving," Sandor stated, "I’ll go ask the little bird if she’ll come." Anya gingerly touched the broken mail, fresh blood coated her fingertips. She laughed at herself, _I'm just like Visenya Targaryen now, though I am dragonless_. If her mother could see her now she would be disappointed in her daughter, no doubt, but her father would have been glad to be rid of her.

She closed her eyes waited for the Hound to come back to her. It felt like hours before he returned, alone, "Where is Sansa?" Anya asked.

He grunted as he lifted Stranger's saddle and slung it onto the horses back. "The little bird likes her cage too much to fly away, but were going," he glanced down at her while tightening the flank cinch, "Can you ride?" Sandor looked at where blood seeped betwixt her fingers, staining both cloth and metal.

Anya nodded, "I don't know how long I'll be able to, though." Her answer sufficed. When he had saddled both Stranger and Shadow, Anya stood on unsure feet. Shadow bent his front legs allowing her to mount more easily. Smoke still hung thick in the air, the entire city was blanketed with it from Flea Bottom to the highest tower of the Red Keep. She didn’t think the smell of burning flesh would ever leave her memory.

The Old Gate was half open with people fleeing from the city in terror on foot. Some tried to jump on Stranger's back but Sandor cut them down just as he did Stannis's men and no one dared to even look at Anya as she passed through them. On a high hill to the north that overlooked the city, Anya stopped and looked back. Through the pain, there was guilt, so much that she felt as if she were being buried alive, it was suffocating. _How can I just leave Sansa in that hell? He should have forced her to come, I_ should _have gone to see her._

In a mad haste, she steered Shadow back towards the city. She was half way back to the Old Gate when Sandor intercepted her path, his face was twisted in anger. "Get out of my way," Anya gritted through the pain, blood slipped down her sleeve and over the mail shirt, coating the leather reins.

"If you go back into that keep you're as good as dead," he spat, "You think that arrow was an accident?" Anya's brows furrowed as she caught another glimpse of the blue fletching on the arrow, the realization had rendered her momentarily speechless _. Stannis's men didn't have arrows, red cloaks had red fletching, and Bronn had blue_ , "Well do you girl?!" the Hound roared.

The Whent girl shook her head, death was a risk she would take if it meant protecting her brother's children, _the pack survives put the lone wolf dies_ , "I have to get Sansa. She's not safe!" _But you're only a bat, not a wolf_.

"And we’re not safe out here. Let the little bird have her cage, she's safer locked away than we could ever be on the road," he digressed, but defiance still lingered in Anya's stormy eyes. He took the reins from her hands and pulled Shadow back towards the Kingsroad. Anya tried to force herself to believe him.

She followed him into the dark of night, tired and bleeding, too weak to argue or be of any use to her niece.

They had ridden hard and far in a short amount of time, not even smoke could be seen in the night sky anymore. Anya could feel her grip loosening on the reins of Shadow, the distance between her and Sandor was steadily increasing, he was a blur of black and silver in the moonlight. _I just need to rest for a few moments_ but she pushed on. The Blackwater Rush flowed in near silence, the dark waters were calm and not on fire as was the case downstream. She urged Shadow to follow Sandor as he had spotted a place to cross.

A single splash too large to belong to a jumping fish startled Sandor from the silence. When he looked over his shoulder, Shadow was without his rider. Anya had fallen from her horse. The current carried her away face down and the mail and metal dragged her beneath the surface. He drug her from the river and onto the bank, both horses looked down at their riders and stamped the ground with muddy hooves.

She laid unmoving and under the haubergeon and cuir bouilli, he could not be sure if her chest was rising and falling. "Come on, little rose, breathe." Frustrated the Hound heaved her up to lean against himself and gave her back a few good thumps with the flat of his palm. She took a spluttering breath, coughing up water and blood alike. Her trembling fingers clutched at the slick dents in the spaulder on his shoulder, "Easy now," he breathed, the smell of wine was still on his breath.

There was no warning when he broke the arrow shaft in half yet somehow the pain was comforting. She didn’t resist or curse him when he lifted her onto Stranger's saddle and mounted behind her. Shadow seemed to know to follow. Dawn was nearly breaking when Sandor pulled on the reins, causing Stranger to come to a sudden halt. A mile or two off the road smoke billowed into the air from a stone chimney. It would mean aid and food.

The black warhorse began a gentle trot towards the small home and Anya’s horse followed riderless. The Hound tightened his hold on Anya, she mumbled something incoherently and writhed at the increased pressure on her arm. A lone home stood beneath two large oak trees, the walls were stone and mud, the roof tiled and thatched with straw, to the side of the cottage was an old barn made of splintering wood and painted red with clay.

Sandor slid from the saddle and pulled Anya off with him. The little Lady stumbled forward but was steadied by a firm hand under her uninjured shoulder. Two goats and an old mule looked at the pair curiously, hay and grass hung limply from their mouths. He gave the door two loud knocks, the wooden door swung open and immediately the woman on the other side stumbled back. He could see fear on her aging face as she looked over the burns on his face and the blood on his armor and hands. It took several long seconds before the widow even noticed the bloodied girl he was supporting. “Can you help her?”

She nodded and stepped aside, motioning them in. “Put her on the table,” the Whent girl babbled in protest when the Hound picked her up. The widow looked at the wound and feared it was beyond her skills. "Have you tried taking the arrow out?" she asked.

Sandor shook his head, "No, just broke the shaft off a bit.” Riding had jarred the arrow, pushing it deeper as what remained of the wooden shaft was now flush with her armor. She frowned. The girl looked familiar, like a young little lady with honey hair and steel eyes that she had once called her daughter. Determination overtook the kind widow.

"Help me with the armor." Wordlessly the Hound listened and did as the widow bid him do. When she told him to cut the threadbare tunic and bustier off he did so without question. He thought the river would have washed the blood off her skin yet it still trickled out of the wound, red streams crept down her chest and more pooled on the table. She was pale, deathly so.

Sandor only noticed the widow had left when she returned with a needle and thread meant for sewing, not stitching skin together but it would have to do. Having seen a good deal of blood or death, the Hound did not understand why the wailing screams of the little rose seemed to make him want to retch. He held her shoulders down but she pounded on the table with leather boots when the widow began to pull up on what was left to the wooden shaft. Anya's eyes were open wide in terror, darting around the room, everything was clouded but the pain. As the widow pulled straight up on the splintered shaft it came loose and left the arrowhead in place, just as she had feared it would do.

There was little time to be lost. The widow had never treated a wound but she had seen maesters perform surgeries and read books, surely she could manage to save the girl's life. An arrow spoon had been one instrument she recalled seeing a picture of in the library at Harrenhal, but now a soup spoon doused with vinegar would have to do. When the widowed Shella Whent slipped the spoon down into the wound and against the arrowhead, Anya screamed until her voice would no longer allow it and dug her fingertips into the table below so hard that they began bleeding as well.

Sandor tried to stay the contortions and convulsions of pain and exhaustion, had he the mind for gentleness, he would have soothed her by whispering sweet words in her ear. The woman's thumb and forefinger were searching the wound for a grip, with a slick and sickening sound the arrowhead came free at the same time the spoon was removed. And she bled the color of rose petals.

Anya was given dwale before the widow even attempted to sew shut the torn flesh, she had gagged at the taste but fell into sleep before she could protest. Vinegar, blood, and smoke were the only scents lingering in the air. The Hound had gone to tend to Stranger and Shadow after he had seen that his little rose wasn't bleeding anymore. 


	24. Twenty-Two

"She'll be alright," the widow had not been ignorant of the way he sat in a corner looking at the table and the woman who laid upon it. He huffed and did his best to seem indifferent to her condition, yet it made him only look like a sulking overgrown child. His ruse, however, wasn't convincing for a woman who had lived to see so much.

"She's too stubborn to die," he muttered after a long moment of silence and that brought a faint smile reminiscent of Anya's to the widow's drawn lips.

"That may very well be the secret to living forever," Shella Whent replied while ladling out the oats she had made, "Here," she pressed a bowl of honeyed porridge into Sandor's hands and returned to her needlework.

She woke with a start, a sheet covered her chest and a blanket was folded under her head as a pillow. The sudden movement had brought awareness to the slow and dull throbbing in her arm but then came the soft touch of a mother easing her up to a sitting position, “Slowly."

Anya was lightheaded by the time she managed to calm her breathing but she managed a croaky, “thank you.” The widow brought a bucket filled with water and a ladle. She drank greedily to rid her mouth of the awful taste of whatever the woman had sedated her with.

Shella Whent followed the girl's gaze to the sword and black armor that had been set aside in a corner, her own armor was scattered about the floor below the table. “He’s by the barn, I asked if he could chop some wood for the fire.”

The Whent girl glanced at a cut of salted pork on a cutting board and a pile of half chopped vegetables, "I can help you cook," she managed.

The widow shook her head, "No, rest. If you wish to do something go take in the fresh air. Let me get you some clothes." There was something so eerily familiar about the woman it sent a cold chill through her blood.

The sun was blinding when she stepped from the small cottage. She followed the sound of splitting wood to the backside of the small barn. Sandor lifted the axe and brought it down in a quick swing. With a keen attentiveness, she watched him. In all her time in the wilderness of the North, she had never seen someone chop wood with as much anger as Sandor Clegane. Each piece split so easily it looked effortless.

When he turned to reach for a canteen of water that was when he saw her standing there. It was an old dress of purples and blues that the widow had given her to wear, too large in truth, but a strip of leather was tied around her waist. Her feet, however, were bare and a layer of linen bandages could be seen wrapped around her torso and shoulder. The wind brought wisps of honey hair in front of her freckled face. She was pretty as a rose and he hadn't the first idea of how to tell her so he swung the axe again, splitting another log.

He said nothing to her so with downcast eyes she returned to the small home and gathered up the pieces of armor strewn about the floor. She supposed it was a good a time as any to scrub the blood and mud from the metal. One of the spaulders was dented, the other caked in so much filth it seemed like it would never shine again. The mail shirt was broken where the arrow had pierced, blood flaked off the small rings, some of which she knew to be her own.

"You'll do more damage to yourself if you keep at that," she stopped the ardent scrubbing, let the strip of wet fabric fall from her hand and looked up at the widow. Only then did Anya realize that she had been crying over her dented armor. The widow sat next to her and gently took her hands. Their hands were frighteningly similar, from the callouses to the size and scars, only a golden band had a home on the woman's left ring finger. "He cares for you, even if he won't admit it."

Anya bit down on her lip for if she tried to reply she was sure tears would come too. "If you still want to help with supper, I suppose you can stir the pot." The widow left to return to the cottage and Anya gathered up her armor and shuffled along after her. It was strange to have a motherly figure in her life if only for a couple of days.

The stew was hearty and plentiful. A simplistic meal that reminded her of the cold nights of youth at Winterfell when she and Benjen would foolishly climb the crumbling stairs of the broken tower and spend all day there until they were near frozen to the bone only to be warmed by a hot stew and. Ned and Lyanna thought it was foolish of them, but Brandon would join them on occasion. She was so lost in thought and taste that it had not occurred to her that the widow was carrying on a conversation that was strained at best with Sandor.

"Thank you for splitting that wood. The young man who used to help me got called away to fight for the crown," the woman refilled his cup to the brim with a freshly brewed mulled cider. He gave a gruff sound, too stubborn to reply with the proper courtesies. Soon after the meal was done he left to tend to the horses. Anya and the widow sat by the hearth, still sipping on what was left of the mulled cider. "I had a daughter," the woman mused aloud, "she looked just like you, though I haven't seen her in nine-and-ten years." Shella Whent ladled out enough of the cider to fill half her cup.

"What happened to her?" Anya questioned while wiping her face with a sleeve.

The woman nursed her cup for a moment and turned her weary gaze to Anya, unfathomable sadness was written over her tired expression and laced deep within her deep blue eyes, "She just disappeared one night."

"I'm sorry to hear that," the Whent girl spoke in a meek voice. _I wonder if my mother misses me? If she's even still alive?_ Anya glanced up at the widow from her cup and felt the same chill run through her blood, "What was her name?"

The widow looked at her wrinkling hands and smiled, “Anya.” All color drained out of Anya Whent’s face when she realized why the woman seemed familiar. It was her mother, Lady Shella Whent, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything other than that it was time she rested.The small house only had one worn featherbed but there was ample room in the barn and straw that would serve as bedding. With an armful of blankets, Anya joined Sandor. He was already asleep in a mound of straw, one side of her lips pulled into half a smile. Once her pallet was ready she took the extra blanket and draped it over the Hound.

Memories of her mother flooded her mind that night, of Harrenhal, of her lessons with Septa Nyla, of the boy she always played with in the courtyard, of the tourney that changed her life. Anya cried that night, silently, and wondered what would have become of her if she hadn’t run away from Harrenhal.

In two days’ time, Sandor was anxious to put more distance between himself and King’s Landing. When the widow mentioned that Anya would be fit to travel so long as she kept the stitching clean and covered, he asked if she felt she would be able to ride. The next morning he had saddled their horses and stored what little provisions the widow had to offer. She mounted Shadow and the widow stroked the horse's mane tenderly. “Thank you," Anya said.

“May I have your name?” Shella Whent asked. The Whent girl dug in her pouch, finding a silver hair comb with bats and yellow sapphires. She held the piece out for the woman to take, “Anya," but she didn't stay long enough to see her mother's reaction, Anya kicked her heels into Shadow's side and cantered away after Sandor. _It's best this way, mother._

_-_

Anya and Sandor had stopped away from the road for the night. A week had passed since they had left Shella Whent Two bedrolls had been laid out under large trees and over a small fire two rabbits roasted on a spit with a pinch of rosemary that she had found in the woods. She had eaten part of her share of the meat and passed the remaining half to the Hound.

The Whent girl plundered in her pack for the jar of salve that her mother had been kind enough to make, the thick blue-green paste was half gone, as were the strips of cloth that served as bandages. She shrugged out of the breastplate and freed her left arm from the mail and tunic. The wound was healing cleanly, for the most part, the stitches were done by a steady hand and were neat, but the skin around where the arrow had been pulled still had a reddish hue over dark bruises.

Cool water from a nearby brook washed away the remaining poultice. The wound breathed and for a moment she thought it best to leave it uncovered until a fly landed on the stitching. The rings of the mail _clinked_ against one another as she fidgeted around, she winced when her hair became entangled with the shirt and was half tempted to hack it off.

Her eyes lingered on Sandor from across the fire. His skin was pocked with craters from the burn but his hair was damp and pushed to cover part of the scar. She didn't know what to think of the Hound. He was cruel at times, but somehow he had more honor than any of the knights in King's Landing without even having to take the vows and bear the title. And he was honest, bluntly so many times. _A hound will die for you but never lie to you_. She remembered hearing the words as Varys spoke them, the Master of Whisperers had been right.

It seemed wrong that he had been so truthful with her yet even her name was a lie. She began spreading the paste over the stitches and bruises and broke the silence. "Do you remember the Tourney at Harrenhal all those years ago?"

"It was my first big outing after," the Hound made a gesture towards the burnt half of his face and watched as Anya lowered her gaze back to the poultice smeared across her fingers. "I do remember some pretty little girl, though, wearing a green dress with gold hair, but not Lannister gold. I think she was Walter Whent's girl. Pity she went missing."

"Sandor," he looked up at her when she spoke his name, it still felt weird to be called that after so many years of being a dog. She was almost laughing, "That was me. Shella and Walter are my parents. I ran away after the Tourney," the Hound didn't know what to make of her admission. Everything but her hair seemed to say she was a Stark. But his mother had hair the color of spun gold and his father's hair had been black as pitch and he and Gregor had both been born with brown hair, his sister had been born with a golden crown. Perhaps hair color was a poor indicator of lineage.

"I remember seeing you, only from across the way, though," she continued, "at one of the feasts I wanted to speak to you but my father forbade it," Anya looked down at the crisp white piece of linen that her mother had given her. Only five clean bandages remained, the others had been stained by blood, sweat, dirt, and stream water where she had tried to wash them.

His eyes continued to linger on her. The swells of her breasts peeked out over the top of her bustier, the swells rose and fell with each breath but after a moment he felt his stomach churn with something foul. All he could picture was her lying on that table, pale as death with blood covering her bare chest and seeping into her honey hair.

"Now why would a pretty little girl want to talk with a boy who had his face melted?" She knelt with her back facing him, the bandage held in place. Without another word, he tied the cloth off and then she was shrugging back on a loose grey-blue tunic and looking at him over her shoulder.

"Because, people are more than just their skin, more than just titles and oaths." _By the Seven I want to kiss him, burned lips and all_. Anya had never dreamt of kisses or anything of the likes, though now a fire was kindled in the pits of her stomach that created a flush of color on her cheeks. She took two wineskins from their pack, passing one to Sandor and busied herself drinking the warm red wine hoping that she could blame it on the rosy color of her cheeks. "Where will we go?" she softly inquired of him.

Sandor furrowed his brow and sat the wineskin aside, "We?" Anya nodded, half fearing that he would turn her away and leave her to rot. He had no duty to her but she dared to hope that their months together would at least be enough for him to take her away from this hell. "Don't know, 'cross the Narrow Sea maybe. I could be a sellsword in Braavos," he looked her over from head to foot, she was dressed in mail and armor again, but he wished she was in that pretty dress the widow had spared her. "Heard there's a Dragon Queen too. Might be she'd like a proper lady in her court."

The Whent girl managed a smile and pulled the mail shirt back overhead but the broken links poked into the stitched wound. She knew better to sleep in the woods at night with no armor, especially with the outlaws that crawled over the land. Sandor was almost annoyed with watching her struggle in and out of the damned thing.

With their bedrolls spread out on either side of the fire, they retired for the night. Anya tossed from one side to the other trying to find the best position to sleep with her shoulder, yet it seemed Sandor was already asleep in only seconds. In truth, he wasn't, he watched until her breathing was slow and steady before even daring to succumb to sleep himself.

Her senses were on edge and she moved quickly despite the nagging ache in her muscles. "Lay a hand on me and I'll cut your cock off and stuff it down your throat," the man hadn't noticed that she had drawn a dagger and had it against him until she pressed on it harder.

Sandor had his sword drawn and slowly neared where she and the bandit stood, "I'd listen to the little Lady if I were you," he warned, the edge of her dagger had already cut through the worn fabric of his breeches.

But then the dogs came out, snarling and snapping, and a cold blade fell against Anya's neck in her shock, something warm slid down her throat. "Lay down your sword," her captor demanded, the edge inched its way into her skin a little more for every passing moment Sandor still held his sword. Anya closed her eyes and waited to feel the cold and terrible bite of the blade but it never came. When she opened her eyes the Hound had driven his sword into the ground and another drop of blood slid down her neck.

"You're coming with us," the archer declared as a dozen men came from behind the trees and bushes too. Anya recognized the archer. He was the champion of the archery contest in the Hand's Tourney, Anguy. He released her but before she could strike a blow, the dagger that had been in her boot was wrenched from her hands and they were being bound with rope.


	25. Twenty-Three

They tied Stranger behind the wain, but Shadow bolted when one of the dogs snapped at his hooves, the speckled destrier fled into the wild before the men could grab the reins. Anya was glad for the horse, it was a freedom she longed for ever since arriving in King's Landing, yet she was sad to see him go. Shadow had been her mount for several long years.

Anguy took her pack and began sifting through the contents, undoubtedly searching for a coin purse or something of value. "What's this?" He held up the small jar of poultice that the widow had made, the one that she used daily now to keep infection and swelling at bay. The paste was foul colored with a mephitic scent that made the archer scrunch his face up. Anya jerked against the ropes but they were pulled tighter and dug further into her skin, "I need that!"

"For what?" the archer questioned, his face still soured from the smell.

"A wound. I have sutures that must be kept clean." He tossed it anyways and gripped the ropes that bound her hands when she tried to dash forward and recover it.

The small amount of autonomy that she had first been allotted was gone after that. They covered her head with a sack and rebound her hands behind her back before tossing her into the cart where the Hound was. He grunted when her weight landed on him. She was half laying on him and couldn't will herself to move, instead she pressed her cheek against what must have been his gorget.

"Could've run," Sandor grunted from out of the canvas sack that covered his head. "Don't remind me," she grumbled in return, yet she allowed herself to relax against his warmth.

That night the band of dissidents stopped and unloaded their spoils of plundering and drug Anya away from her spot in the cart against Sandor. Panic made her heart beat so quickly it almost made breathing a chore.

"Doesn't she look to be a right good fuck, boys?" the pair of hands that seized her were Jon O' Nutten's, he had a pinched face and a deep scar that shone through what little of the brown hair remained on his head. At first, Anya froze as she remembered that day in King's Landing. The mob had her on her back yet even then her limbs were not bound by rope. She could only kick and shout.

"Let me go!" Her shouting did not dissuade the man, nor did her flailing attempts to kick him. "Stop!" He laughed in her face and on impulse Anya reared back and smashed her forehead into his nose. The rebel cursed and pulled a dagger from his boot, the rest of the bandits watched in disport. "I have a proposition, yeah?" The man took hold of Anya's chin and laid his dagger against her cheek, but his inaction told her to continue, "A draw, between you and I. First to break skin wins. If you win, I'll let you have me, but if I win you and the others won't lay a finger on me again."

Jon O' Nutten simpered and sheathed his dagger, "I quite like to work up a sweat before I fuck a girl," he laid his hand over the bulge in his pants and the men around the fire guffawed.

They passed her a sword and undid the bindings around her arms and hands, obviously disinclined at the notion. It was tempting to run, to slice through the ropes on Sandor and run but Anguy _was_ a good archer and it was unlikely he would miss the both of them. So she stood her ground and readied her weary body and mind for the fight.

Only a handful of blows and feints were exchanged before she ducked away and picked up Anguy's bow and a single arrow. Anya nocked the arrow and released the taut string before anyone could stop her and the arrow sailed through the air for half a second before grazing the side of her opponent's face, from lips to ear. The man dropped his sword and quickly brought his hand to his cheek, his fingers were coated in blood, she had won.

The camp was silent until Jon O' Nutten spat on the fire and drove his sword into the ground fuming, "Let the dog have his bitch." They bound her to a tree with a thick trunk, facing Sandor Clegane. The ropes were tied too tight and her foolish impulse to pick up a bow had popped some of the stitches. It started as a small spot of warmth but quickly bloomed. The Hound wouldn't look at her, not whilst she was bleeding, the burned side of his face was turned towards her.

She couldn't be sure how long they rode, their captors said little of where they were being taken and who they were being taken to. Anya imagined that by now there would have been a bounty on Sandor's head for desertion, maybe even one on hers as well if the Lannister's could be bothered about Robb Stark's aunt when they still had Sansa in their claws.

The food they managed to scrounge up tasted like shit, the water still looked questionable even though she knew it had been boiled. Worst she had begun to smell, it was hard to tell if it was from how filthy her clothes were or if her shoulder had grown infected. Anya only knew that she was hungry, but half the food she ate was retched up not even an hour later.

The cart stopped and someone drug her by the ankles to the edge of the cart and heaved her up to stand, out of sheer impulse she kicked whoever it had been but that only earned her a backhanded slap across the face. They pulled her forward by the rope tied around her wrist, like a leash on a dog. Anya stumbled along, hoping that they were not separating her from Sandor.

"That is an uncommonly large person. How does one manage to subdue such an uncommonly large person?" She knew the voice but could not put it to a name.

"The hounds sniffed these two out, found 'em sleeping beneath a willow tree." The hood was yanked off her head and even the dim lightening of the inn was enough to cause her head to spin. Thoros of Myr stood before them, drunk as ever, with his arms extended for show or balance it was hard to say; however, it was a familiar child of ten years that caught Anya's attention.

The girl meant to pass as a boy but Anya knew the shape of her nose, the curve of her jaw, even the way she walked. "Arya?!" Her hair had been hacked off and the clothes she wore were worn and thin.

Arya Stark dropped her sword and looked up at her aunt with wide eyes, Yoren had told her the Lannisters would kill her next, that it was likely she'd be dead soon and she had believed him. "Aunt Anya." Thoros looked between Anya and Arya and pulled out his dagger. He sliced through the ropes that had bloodied her wrists and watched as Anya lifted the girl from the floor and into her arms. Arya was too large to be picked up in truth and Anya was too weak but that didn't matter.

"Where did you go?" Arya hated the way her aunt's lip quivered, it made her want to cry, but she was a direwolf, and direwolves don't cry. Anya smoothed her hands over the girls shortened brown hair, "How?"

"What are you doing with him?" The Whent girl looked over her shoulder at Sandor and frowned when her gaze settled back on Arya.

"Going," she answered. _Somewhere, anywhere_ , only at the moment they were prisoners and their destination was so very far.

They stayed at the inn for the night and despite Arya's pleas and Anya's given word that she would not run the Brotherhood bound her arms to her side and pushed her down on the straw floor next to Sandor. She groaned and rolled onto her side, there was no comfortable position to sleep in with such a limited range of motion.

Even the mating on the wood floor couldn't stop the boards from creaking in Arya snuck over to the corner where her aunt was, a small knife in hand. Thoros had appeared behind her, his movements were far too silent for a drunken priest, and snatched the knife away. "Don't even think 'bout it." Arya huffed.

"Is Sansa?" Arya didn't know what to ask but somehow Anya knew what she wanted to ask.

"Sansa," Anya began, _what can I possibly tell her?_ "Sansa is stronger than you think. Your sister is playing the great game now, in truth, she is a far better player than me." _She's a better player than any of us_.

"Why are you with him?" Anya frowned at Arya persistent question, she knew that the girl hadn't forgotten what had happened on the Kingsroad, to Mycah or Nymeria, and even Lady. She had blamed the Hound and while he was guilty, Joffrey and Cersei bore an equal blame for the atrocity. That brought her back to the question, one that she did not eve understand the answer to herself.

"Protection, company," she nodded in the direction that most of the Brotherhood had gone, the sound of Tom Sevenstrings plucking his wood harp could faintly be heard, "the same reason you're with them." Arya looked over her shoulder and instantly she found Hot Pie and Gendry. While she knew better than to cut her aunt's bonds, she loosened the knots before returning to where her companions were.

As soon as morning light broke the Brotherhood were loading up new weapons, food, and new recruits. Anya woke when one of the men nudged her heel with his boot and then she was pulled to stand on unsteady feet. From across the yard, she heard Sandor and Anguy bickering. "You think you're good with that bow, you little twat?"

"Better than anyone you've ever met," Anguy boasted.

Sandor howled in mock laughter, "If I remember right you got your arse beat by Ned Stark's sister," the archer shoved the Hound forward but it did nothing to him. "A coward's weapon. I like to fight up close. I like to see a man's face when I put the steel in him."

Anguy hooted in amusement, "Why? So you can kiss him?" Anya wondered if the archer's word would have been so bold if Sandor had a sword in hand. The Mad Huntsman pushed the Whent girl into the small crowd that had gathered around the Hound. Anya frowned when she saw the two canvas sacks awaiting them at the end of a wain. Anguy picked up on the sacks and stepped toward the Hound, "Now, apologies, but you're one ugly fucker and I'd rather not see you no more."

Anya knew to fight was pointless so she set the archer drape the sack over her head and guide her to the step of the wain. "Nice arse, luv," just enough light seeped in through the woven canvas that she could see Anguy and his smug grin. Without much thought, she knocked her forehead against his nose and snorted when he bellowed in pain, but she hadn't foreseen that he would shove her in response and cause her to fall atop Sandor.

She laughed despite their situation and pressed her forehead into the crook of his neck, "it seems we keep finding ourselves in this position," she muttered. The Hound grunted and let her be, finding a strange sort of contentment with having her atop him.

-

When the sack was pulled off her head, Anya breathed in expecting it to be fresh air, instead, it was the stale, humid, and hot air of a cave that she breathed in. The shifting flames painted Sandor Clegane's burned face with orange shadows, he looked even more terrible than he did in daylight. When he pulled at the rope that bound his wrists, flakes of dry blood fell off. "You look like a bunch of swineherds," he sneered.

"Some of us were swineherds. And some of us tanners and masons. That was before-," said a short man Anya had only just noticed but was cut short by the Hound. "You're still swineherds and tanners and masons. You think carrying a crooked spear makes you a soldier?" Anya bristled at Sandor's words, it seemed they disagreed on the definition of a soldier.

"No. Fighting in a war makes you a soldier," at the opening of the cave stood a ghost of a man that Anya had not seen in what felt like ages. He was thinner than last she saw him, more rugged than the day he had left King's Landing under her brother's orders.

The Hound took a step back as if he was looking at a ghost, but Beric may very well have been a ghost, she had heard that Ser Gregor had run him through with a lance. "Beric Dondarrion? You've seen better days."

"And I won't see them again," responded the Lightning Lord. As he came into the light Anya could see the patch covering his right eye.

Beric met Anya's weary gaze and took a step toward her but then Sandor spoke and his attention was drawn away from her. "Stark deserters. Baratheon deserters. You lot aren't fighting in a war. You're running from it."

"Last I heard, you were King Joffrey's guard dog," Beric turned his eye to Anya, curious as to why Ned Stark's sister would be traveling with the likes of Sandor Clegane, "But here you are a thousand miles from home. Which one of us is running?"

Sandor puffed out his chest and looked down at the smaller lord, “Untie these ropes and we'll find out."

Anya stepped forward and alas Beric Dondarrion looked at her, taking in the state of her honey hair and the filth that had accumulated on her tunic, "What are you doing leading a mob like this?” She asked. Beric was betrothed to Lady Allyria Dayne of Starfall, his place was with her, not leading a band of rebels.

The Lightning Lord lowered his head out of respect for her title and person but is countenance remained unchanged, “Your brother ordered me to execute the false knight, Ser Gregor Clegane, in King Robert's name.” _But instead it was he who executed you_ , she kept that thought to herself.

“Ned Stark is dead," the Hound proclaimed, "King Robert is dead. My brother's alive,” he spat at the mention of his brother, “You're fighting for ghosts.”

Anya felt a twinge in her chest at the mention of Ned, since that night at the Blackwater she had hardly thought about Eddard Stark, her focus had been on survival and despite everything, on Sandor as well. Jack-Be-Lucky pulled her back amongst the rebels and held her with a steadfast grip. The glow of the fire caused the tears on her cheeks to glisten and the men at her side only laughed, speaking of a woman's weakness. She thought Beric or Thoros had mentioned her name but when she glanced back toward the center of the cave Sandor was fuming. “If you mean to murder me, then bloody well get on with it. You took my sword, my horse, and my gold, so take my life and be done with it, but spare me this pious bleating.”

“You will die soon enough, dog,” promised Thoros, “but it shan’t be murder, only justice.”

“Aye,” said the Mad Huntsman, “and a kinder fate than you deserve for all your kind have done. Lions, you call yourselves. At the Mummer’s Ford, girls of six and seven years were raped, and babes still on the breast were cut in two while their mothers watched."

“I was not at the Mummer’s Ford,” the Hound told him, speaking truly. “Lay your dead children at some other door.”

Thoros answered him. “Do you deny that House Clegane was built upon dead children? I saw them lay Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys before the Iron Throne. By rights, your arms should bear two bloody infants in place of those ugly dogs.”

The Hound’s mouth twitched. “Do you take me for my brother? Is being born Clegane a crime?”

"Murder is a crime!" Anya couldn't be sure who had made the statement though she was sure that whoever had shouted it was a murderer too.

The announcement of a trial by combat had happened so suddenly that Anya cried out that the madness be stayed; the Brotherhood would not listen to her instead they prayed to the fiery Lord of Light. "For the night is dark and full of terrors," chills ran down Anya's spine as the words were repeated by all the Brotherhood. _There are no gods_ , the Whent girl thought, _the Seven, the Old Gods, R'hllor, they're all lies._

"If he tries to run, kill her," Thoros of Myr had no qualms about seeing her blood spilled, he was far from the holy man she had once heard tales of. Arya darted forward shouting in protest but Gendry held her back. The Hound went to draw steel only they had taken his sword; he looked at the priest and spat on the ground, "And what would your god say to killing an innocent woman?"

Jack-Be-Lucky's laugh was humorless and echoed in the hollow hill as he shoved Anya to the ground, with hands still bound behind her back, her own dagger at her throat. "She was with you, how innocent can she be?"

The Hound ripped the sword free and threw away the scabbard and the Mad Huntsman gave him an oaken shield. Unsmiling, Lord Beric laid the edge of his longsword against the palm of his left hand and drew it slowly down. Blood ran from the gash he made and washed over the steel. And then the sword took fire.

Anya held her breath as Sandor charged him. The flaming sword leaped up to meet the cold one, long streamers of fire trailing in its wake. Steel rang on steel. No sooner was his first slash blocked than Sandor made another, but this time Lord Beric's shield got in the way, and wood chips flew from the force of the blow.

The Hound moved to his right, but Dondarrion blocked him with a quick sidestep and drove him back the other way... toward the sullen red blaze of the firepit. The Hound gave ground until he felt the heat at his back. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him what was behind him, and almost cost him his head when Lord Beric attacked. For a short moment, his gaze moved to Anya and his strength was made anew.

Sandor Clegane had fought his way back to his feet with a reckless counterattack. Not until Lord Beric retreated a pace did the Hound seem to realize that the fire that roared so near his face was his own shield, burning. The Brotherhood's chants filled the hollow hill. Thoros looked to Anya across the fire, smiling. _He's going to lose_ , she thought and fear slowly seeped into her mind, _he can't lose, he's going to take me away from this hell_. She squeezed her eyes.

With a shout of revulsion, he hacked down savagely on the broken oak, completing its destruction. The shield shattered, one piece of it spinning away, still afire, while the other clung stubbornly to his forearm. His efforts to free himself only fanned the flames. His sleeve caught, and now his whole left arm was ablaze. Anya cried out, wishing that this madness would stop, "Stop this madness!" But her voice was lost to the chanting of the men who wished for the Hound's death.

Beric was on his knees with no shield, only his sword was left to block the blows. Sandor's shield still burned and with a harrowing call he brought his sword down upon Dondarrion's. The burning sword snapped in two, and the Hound's cold steel plowed into Lord Beric's flesh where his shoulder joined his neck and clove him down to the breastbone. The blood came rushing out in a hot black gush. Sandor jerked backward, still burning. The hollow hill fell silent in disbelief as their leader had been defeated. Thoros ran to him and called upon the Lord of Light.

"Please," Sandor Clegane rasped, cradling his arm. "I'm burned. Help me. Someone. Help me." No one went to him at first. Anya struggled against the man who had forced her to her knees, his grip loosened in his own shock and she fell face first on the dirt floor of the cave. Thoros was at Beric's side saying a prayer over the maimed corpse.

Anya stumbled to Sandor and fell next to him. She twisted her arms and pulled against the rope but the knots only grew tighter. A small hunchbacked woman slashed the rope and knelt next to her. The Whent girl took Sandor's shield arm and pushed back the singed sleeve of his tunic. The skin was burnt, cracked and bleeding. He would need a healing poultice for it else it would fester. "Little rose," he was blind to the other woman next to her. When he moved, a piece of burned flesh sloughed right off his arm, and his knees went out from under him.

The Brotherhood at least had the decency to clean and bandage the singed skin of Sandor's arm and offer a hot meal before turning them away. Though it was over the meal that Melly, the woman who had cut her bonds, came and sat in front of her. "What of your wounds?" Anya tried to ignore the feverish pain that washed over her at odd times, she hadn't looked at the stitches since their capture. They hadn't been cleaned or properly covered with a salve in what must have been a week, and then there were her bouts of vomiting but she wouldn't believe that it was festered.

Melly pushed the coarse tunic off of Anya's shoulder and carefully undid the soiled linen bandage. It was a mass of black thread stretched tautly and puckered red skin that oozed both blood and pus, the smell was what bothered Anya the most.

"I must cut these stitches and drain the humours," Melly laid her hand over the feverish wound and called for Swampy Meg to aid her. She used a small knife to cut the stitching and immediately congealed blood flowed out with the infectious fluid, the smell was the worse than the pain. Arya came while they worked and sat a couple of feet away from her aunt, watching. Melly pressed down on both sides of the open flesh while Meg wiped away what flowed out with a damp cloth. It took half the night before the blood was running pure red once more.

"It should be burned," the two women spoke quietly and at a distance so Anya would not hear them. She was left uninformed until they brought forth the glowing piece of metal. Anya's eyes widened, she shook her head in protest and tried to back away. "Arya, you will not wish to see this. Go, child." The girl heeded Melly's command and left from the hollow hill.

They offered a thick twig for her to bite down on. Meg straddled Anya's waist and held her arms down while Melly's steady hands brought down the red-hot piece of iron. She had broken the twig in two almost instantly and screamed.

All of the Brotherhood could hear her cries but Sandor knew that kind of screaming well enough. It was the sound made when someone was being burned. "We'll make a fever tea and give you fresh bandages and salves," Anya nodded in thanks, her throat too raw to speak. For now, she slept. They did not try to keep the Hound from her either.

The cup was made of smooth wood, the brown liquid was steaming with a pungent smell but Anya forced herself to take a sip of the tea. She gagged and spit it out, coughing, "What did you expect? Arbor gold?" Melly scolded but Meg was laughing, even Beric Dondarrion had an amused look about him.

Anya pointed to the foul tea, "What's in this?" she managed between coughing fits.

"Mold, yarrow, garlic, and usnea. Unpleasant but it works," Meg was laughing whilst she spoke. Anya pinched her nose and forced the brew down, only then would the two women give her a cup of watered wine to help with the aftertaste. Breakfast was sparse, a piece of brown bread and a small slab of meat, unpleasant but filling.

Melly pushed a small back into Anya's hands, "Bandages and salves for the both of you." she nodded in thanks and gave Arya one last glance, her niece was set on remaining with the Brotherhood out of her hatred for the Hound. Sandor lifted her onto Stranger's back and mounted behind her. He was glad to leave the Brotherhood behind as was she, but Arya would not come and somehow that hurt worst that having a glowing piece of metal pressed against her skin.


	26. Twenty-Four

"Did you know?" Anya's voice was level as she brought a jar of salve and a long strip of linen that Melly had given her to Sandor's side. He would try to shrug off the need to have his arm cleaned and bandaged but after facing her scolding once he didn't care to listen to it again. He pulled up the sleeve of his tunic and let her unwrap the soiled bandage.

"Know what?" He asked, voice gruff and low.

She opened the small jar and delved her fingers into the thick salve before gently rubbing it over the worst of the burn. "That the Lannister's were trying to kill me," Anya wouldn't meet his gaze, instead she slathered the cool poultice over the rest of his forearm and began wrapping it with a strip of linen. "It was one of Bronn's arrows," she murmured. Her fingers trembled as she tied a small knot in the cloth to hold it in place without any pins. "Did you know, Sandor?" Anya still held his arm but her grip had tightened and he grimaced.

He said nothing.

"What did it feel like?" Her question cut through the silence and left him perturbed. He looked up from the fire, at her, with the stained tunic half on as she dabbed the same salve over the red burn on her shoulder. It was tender and in some places was trying to blister and peel. It would scar after healing. Her hair was tied back with a strip of leather, though shorter wisps still framed her face.

"Hell, the smell was the worst part." Her expression was stoic and gave nothing away to her inner thoughts or pains. She lowered her head and continued to tend to her wound. "North," he said the word with a blank expression and flat tone. Anya's head snapped up from her shoulder to him in shock and question. "We'll head north, then cross the sea."

Wordlessly Anya stood with the linen bandage in place, only it was too short for her to wrap to the front a third time to be tied. She sat in front of Sandor and he tied off the cloth in a knot. The feel of his rough hands grazing her back sent chills down her spin and turn her skin into gooseflesh. Hastily she righted her tunic and moved to the opposite side of the fire and began replacing her scattered and bent pieces of armor.

That night, like on others, he watched until her breathing had become steady and sleep had taken her, but this time he didn't turn over on his bed roll. The Hound poked at the small fire with a branch and slunk off into the woods.

It had to have been the dead of night when Anya jerked awake at the sound of a girl yelling. She was quick to pull her sword from its sheath and stand on guard, it was then she realized she was alone. Something that she could not explain seized her heart and began to squeeze. From the tree line emerged a tall, shadowed figure with something, no _someone_ , slung over its shoulder, kicking and thrashing like a wounded animal.

She lowered her sword as soon as she realized who it was and took a deep breath of relief. Sandor dumped the girl that had been strung across his shoulders next to her aunt's bedroll. "Arya!?" Anya knelt next to her and began scanning over her face for scratches and scraps but there were none, only dirt. "What are you doing here?"

Had the girl's gaze been deadly then surely the Hound would have been dead within a second, "Ask him. He's the one who hauled me here," her voice was venomous. Anya looked across the fire at him with a questioning brow raised.

"Ransom," he shrugged, Arya crossed her arms irritably and Anya's brows settled into a deep furrow. "The both of you," he added after a moment of lingering silence. Sandor met Anya's gaze with a brash coldness that she had never witnessed before, but she was just as quick to return such a stare. She was like a rose, effortlessly beautiful but dangerous and he could see the danger lurking in her wintry eyes.

-

Anya and Arya rode on Stranger while Sandor pulled the horse along by the reins. The three of them couldn't ride at once and he claimed they would slow the pace if they walked on foot. Anya had barely spoken a word since the previous night. There was an ill feeling in her gut that only increased tenfold him she looked at him. "You're despicable," she had said with no preamble when the sun was at its highest point.

The Hound barked with a short bout of humorless laughter, "You're not a ray of sunshine either, woman," he bit back, voice dripping with sardonicism.

"What if Robb and Catelyn refuse your demands?" Her voice was softer this time and for a moment he was taken back by the question to the point where he could only muster a response that would drive the wedge further between them. "Then I'll finish what Cersei started," he didn't look at her, he only walked forward, over the open plains of the Riverlands.

"They'll pay you," Anya spoke up after a bit, he looked over his shoulder at the two riders, "but what good is it worth if you're left wandering about. Gold won't last forever you know."

He scoffed, "If the King in the North has half a mind then he'll pay me for the two of you and make me a lord."

Anya thought carefully about what she should say next, the memory came to her after a second of thought of the days after Jaime Lannister had left him for dead in the streets and Robert was on his hunt. "Under the decree of my brother before Robert's death, you were already the Lord of Clegane Keep." Sandor looked up at her, the dark mass of twisted skin around his eye twitched and his countenance gave warning enough that she shouldn't say anything else on the matter, yet she did. "When he first sent Dondarrion out to kill your brother he stripped him of ranks, titles, and land. Though I'm still not completely sure of how that succession would work with you refusing knighthood."

The Whent girl saw his jaw clench, "You best watch your tongue if you want to keep it," he snapped.

"Apologies, m'lord," she smirked and his scowl deepened. Somehow Anya knew that she was the only person who could speak to him in such a manner and live. Arya laughed, though she hid the sound in her aunt's back.

The same bickering nature of conversation persisted for the rest of the day and into the night. They had stopped near a stream and surprisingly enough were able to catch two fish that were close to eating size. Nights were growing longer and colder. Sometimes the chill that seeped into her bones would not leave for the entire day and only worsen with the next night. It was a bitter reminded that the Starks were right, the Starks were always right. _Winter is coming_.

By the end of the third day of traveling with Arya, Anya couldn't be bothered to stay angry with him no matter how she tried. He was taking her and Arya to Robb and Catelyn, wherever they were was the closest she could get to feeling at home anymore. He was taking them home. Their pace had steadily slowed.

The town they passed through at dusk was small and near unpopulated, though outside the tavern was a board with posted scrolls of paper depicting wanted peoples by the crown. Among the ill-drawn pictures was one of the Hound though nothing was said of the reward until the body was delivered to King's Landing. Sandor ripped the piece of parchment off its wooden peg and stuffed it in his sleeping roll before taking Stranger by the reins again and pulling them along on the worn road.

Anya unpacked their sleeping rolls and spread them out under a large elm tree near a small brook. Water leaked out of the tree's base and into the brook, fresh and crisp.

It had taken an over and hour to catch the rabbit without a proper trap or small arrow but Arya had lunged forward and caught the creature by its hind legs. She passed it off to Anya who tended to its skinning and cleaning. Sandor had started the fire with the wanted sign from the village, the ink burned a different color than the paper and was a mesmerizing sight. Fire was deadly, but beautiful and therein lie the danger of it.

Arya was asleep already but Anya sat near the dying fire and pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and brought her knees to her chest. "There's a bounty on your head," she murmured.

He shrugged, "Aye, no one's going to collect it either." Had it been under different circumstances she may have laughed at his confidence but she knew what men would do in pursuit of fame and riches and then even size and strength wouldn't be enough.

"Anyone can be killed," his eyes bored into hers until she turned to the small pack in which there remained a single bandage and small amount of salve, only enough for one. With the cold in her bones, she stood, albeit slowly, and made her way around the fire to Sandor's side where without word or glance she began unwrapping his arm. The burns had blistered and busted under the weight of his mail shirt but now were starting to scab over. Methodically, Anya poured water over the irritated skin and spread the last of the salve over his arm. When she began wrapping the piece of linen around his forearm she paused and her gaze ever so briefly flashed up to his, but whatever had caused that impulse had passed and she carefully tied a knot, tucking it behind the wrapping.

Anya jumped when she felt the back of his fingers against her cheek, yet it was not from revulsion only that it had been so unanticipated. She bit her bottom lip hard and refused to open her eyes for fear that it would all be a dream. Unhurriedly his hand went from her jaw just to the beginnings of her hairline until he jerked his hand back at the mumbling of a waking Arya.

When she opened her eyes his face was as harsh as ever and with knitted brows she looked down at her hands before retreating to her own bedroll on the opposite side of the fire. Anya Whent would not find sleep that night, her heart was just as confused as her mind and no question she had could be answered.

-

Anya was telling Arya stories from her childhood for most of the morning, it seemed to take her mind off of everything, even off her hatred of Sandor. She had only just come to mentioning Jory and how once when they had gone on a hunt with Benjen and Ned, they got lost in the woods, separated in the Wolfswood. They were both still young and as night fell a wildling came with a jagged blade demanding coin and horse. Anya had only just been given her own bow, made for her still growing arms and it had been the yew bow that saved the both of them. She had killed her first man at thirteen by putting an arrow through his eye.

Sandor looked ahead disbelieving of the stories he had heard of her adventures, or rather misadventures. Jory Cassel had come up multiple times and Arya felt a wave of sadness come over her as she remembered her father's captain of the guard. He had always encouraged her training and sometimes would help her if it was only her brothers and Anya around. He'd even play at the girlish games Sansa enjoyed. "I miss Jory," the girl whispered, almost ashamed to admit it.

The Whent girl sighed, "as do I."

But when Anya closed her eyes and tried to remember her sweet Jory his face was blurred and she couldn't remember what color his eyes had been and suddenly she felt as if she were suffocating. And so she tried to recall the smallest details about her siblings, all of which came back clearly. _Ned had eyes the color of a winter storm, Benjen had eyes so deep and blue it was like looking into an endless see, Brandon had the stern grey eyes typical of a Stark but with mirth laced within the harsh color, and Lyanna, Lyanna's eyes were the color of Jon's, grey and cold and harsh_. Anya quickly wiped away the stray tear that ran down her cheek _. Brown eyes, Jory had brown eyes and I loved them_.

Sandor looked up at her and she was drawn down to his gaze and it scared her to see such familiar eyes staring back at her. His eyes shone like new growth on the boughs of the trees, free of moss, deep and fierce. His gaze was cool waters on flames, soft rain on petals, the sky lightening after a storm.

Come nightfall it seemed as if they were no closer to the Twins than they had been three days ago, but they were still headed north. Another town rose from the horizon, only this one was empty. There were no inhabitants, what looked to be the main holdfast in the center had been burnt and still smelled faintly of burnt flesh when the ashes were stirred. "What is this place?" Arya asked.

"Wendish Town," Anya responded as she remembered the accounts from one of the survivals who had come to King's Landing, the destruction was the work of the Lannister's mad dog, Gregor Clegane. Sandor pulled her from Stranger's saddle and handed her the reins. There were a handful of houses that remained, Wary of looters and bandits, the Whent girl gripped the hilt of her sword and cautious followed the Hound.

He pushed open the door one of the houses and drew his sword, only it was empty. For the night they would all have a bed even if the mattresses were stuffed with rags and straws and not feathers. Hunting that night came easy, there were fishing poles to use and only a short walk to the river, a handful of chickens still roamed around the deserted farm and some spices remained in a cupboard. With the patch of onions and turnips that had grown again from the destruction, it was the closest they had to a real meal in weeks. And strangely enough, as they sat at the table it was an affair with no harsh words spoken or looks exchanged.


	27. Twenty-Five

The wagon was filled with cuts of pork and stuck in the middle of the road, the driver fiddling with a wheel as the spindles had broken for what looked to be a second or third time. His mule was still harnessed but stood in the small patch of grass to the side of the beaten dirt path. They slowed to a halt and Sandor turned to Anya and Arya, lifting each of them from the back of Stranger. He passed the reins to Anya before uttering that they were to act like a passing family.

Arya looked up at her aunt as the Hound approached the man, he was just finishing off a repair to the last broken spoke when he took notice of them. "The roads have gone right to hell, haven't they? Cracked three spokes just this morning."

Sandor looked down at the wheel, "Need a hand?" he asked.

"Need about eight hands," the man half laughed but Sandor pulled up on the back corner of the wain and lifted it. "Oh!" The driver's eyes went wide but he quickly slipped the wheel back on its axle and gave it a tap for reassurance. "Got to get this salt pork to the Twins in time for the wedding," he spoke as he stood. "Many thanks." Though the words may have been truthful they sealed the man's fate.

Anya blenched at the mention of the Twins but that ounce of disgust had turned to shock. Her eyes widened for split second as the hog farmer fell back onto the ground. "Sandor!" She cried his name in horror, but Arya had already put herself between the Hound and his would be prey.

"Don't!" Even pushing against Sandor with all her strength she wouldn't have been able to stop him had he been determined, "Don't kill him." Arya pleaded.

"Dead rats don't squeak," he reasoned and moved toward the farmer but she stopped him again.

The girl scoffed, "You're so dangerous, aren't you? Saying scary things to little girls," her eyes grew rigid as she continued, "Killing little boys and old people. A real hard man you are."

He looked down his nose at her with palpable annoyance, "More than anyone you know."

"You're wrong, I know a killer. A real killer," Arya bit back.

"That so?" He sounded unimpressed at the notion.

She nodded and almost smiled, "You'd be like a kitten to him. He'd kill you with his little finger."

"That him?" The Hound asked, looking over Arya's shoulder at the man sprawled out across the road.

She cast a second's glance to the man as well, "No."

"Good." Sandor declared, his resolve still to kill the farmer, but Arya pushed him back again.

"Don't kill him. Please. Please don't." she pleaded once more. The Hound frowned and returned his knife back to its small sheath, "You're very kind," he began in all sincerity, "Someday it'll get you killed." The farmer stirred on the ground, groaning and moaning, he had raised his hand to deal with the growing welt on his cheek but Arya had picked up a mallet and then the man was flat on his back again.

The girl strode away towards Stranger and Anya came to stand beside Sandor, looking down at the poor fellow who had crossed their path. "How the fuck is the little bird related to her?" He snorted.

Anya simpered for a moment as she reflected on his and the girls squabbling, she had found it almost amusing, "Arya takes after me more than her mother or sister." It really came as no surprise that the child Ned and Catelyn had named after her would be the one to act the most like her aunt.

"Seven hells," he muttered

Her gaze was drawn back down to the unconscious man and her frown returned, "Let's move him from the road and let him keep the mule." The Hound could have cared less what happened to the man but to pacify his traveling companions he drug the man off the road beneath a large tree while Anya tied off the mule's reins to a young sapling. Stranger was not keen on pulling a wagon but once harnessed he made a handsome cart horse. Arya rode in the back of the wain and as there was no more room for the pig heads and side cuts, Anya rode on the bench next to Sandor, hardly saying a word, her sights set on the road ahead and reaching Rob and Catelyn.

The Twins were still a day's ride from their place on the Green Fork and as eager as both Anya and Arya were to be in sight of the castle and rejoined with family, they stopped and made camp for the night along the river. With a branch sharpened into a point, Anya speared two big trout in the shallowest part of the river. She descaled and gutted the fish with efficacy. She and Arya picked at the flaking meat of their fish watching in partial disgust as Sandor gorged himself on fatback and pig feet.

"How're we going to get into the Twins if you eat all the fucking pork?" Anya snapped, unease had filled her stomach. _They are so close yet still so far_.

"We'll get there, pork or no." He waved the cured piece of back fat in front of Anya's face. Her scowl deepened and without speaking she stalked off to the edge of the wood to prevent herself from doing some regretful action. The moon was full and with its silvery light, Anya broke off a thick branch and pulled out a small dagger. She sat against the trunk of a large tree and whittled away at the soft piece of wood. It was a way to channel her worries, doubts, and fears.

When the first light of the sun shone down on Anya's face she stirred, finding herself on laying on her own sleeping roll despite having fallen asleep at the edge of the wood. She said nothing as the three of them packed and reloaded their things into the wagon.

The twin castles came into sight on the horizon as the sun was lowering. They would make it by nightfall. On several occasions, Sandor cast curious glances at Anya, every time she was either biting down on her lip hard enough to break the skin or wringing her hands together like a worried widow.

Outside the castle was a camp with all those who were sworn to Robb. Some of the men she recognized by only their faces having seen them come and go from Winterfell, others she could only place by the sigil they bore on shield or breast. White flags bearing the Stark direwolf had been driven into the ground and flapped in the gentle wind. Despite the familiarity of those that surrounded her, Anya Whent kept her hood up and dared not meet any of their gazes.

One of the Frey guards had stopped them at the gate and in Sandor's attempts to haggle with the man, Arya had hoped from the back of the wain. When Anya looked back the girl was gone, a small figure ran in the distance turning a sharp corner. Sandor noticed her absence as well but remained occupied with the door guard. The Whent girl fled from her seat on the wooden bench, following the tracks of the she-wolf. "Arya!" She hissed her name aloud, trying to remain inconspicuous. The girl was crouched behind barrels and crates looking at one of the castle's kennels.

"It's Grey Wind," Arya whispered with a faint smile, "He wants out." _Something is not right_.

Anya stood and took a dithering step towards the massive kennel that Robb's direwolf had been locked in. He howled into the night and rattled the door in his attempts to escape. Her next step towards the wolf never came as several Freys came bearing crossbows. When she realized what was to done, the Whent girl retreated and held onto Arya, forcing her to look away. There was a squeal and then the wolf howled no more _. We're too late,_ she realized all at once after seeing the Great Hall's entrance had been barred. Anya took hold of Arya's face with both her hands and looked the girl level in the eyes. Someone in the distance had screamed, "Go. Go with Sandor. He'll keep you safe."

Arya shook her head fervently, "What about you?" she cried. _Now is as good as any time to die_. Anya kissed Arya's forehead and pushed her back in the direction in which she had run off from. Breathing in a slow calm breath, Anya stood and ripped her sword from its sheath and was lost to the fray.

Her eyes were set on the great hall but there were a thousand Freys blocking her way. _They are so close but still so far_. Anya ripped her sword from its sheath and ran towards where she could only hope Robb and Catelyn were. Blood sprayed across her face when she slashed one man across the neck, she drove the point of her sword into the chest of another and hacked off a man's sword arm at the elbow. It took a moment before she realized that the dampness on her face, wasn't sweat but tears and blood.

Arya had listened to her aunt, but at seeing a discarded sword, she picked it up. Though before she had time to even take a step forward the flat of Sandor's axe collided with Arya's temple. He caught the girl afore she even fell and slung her over his shoulder. He laid her across Stranger's saddle and looked for a head of honey hair but only saw carnage. Those who had taken sides with the young wolf were being butchered like wounded lambs.

The Hound continued his search, undeterred by the violence. He cursed her for running off and it only gave him another reason to hate her. For her sheer stubbornness and foolishness. Someone had found her bruised and barely cognizant beneath falling straw and mud near the stables, but it had been by the wrong person, "Aye! It's the other bloody wolf bi-," the Frey soldier hadn't time to finish the sentence before the Hound drove his sword through the man's back and twisted. He pushed the Frey off the blade and pulled Anya up and over his shoulder, pulling up one of the flags bearing the sigil of House Frey as the direwolf of House Stark burned.

Sandor grabbed the reins of a frightened horse that still had a direwolf embroidered on the saddle blanket and draped her over the animal's back. He mounted Stranger and pulled the reins of the skittish horse. Leaving the Twins far behind.

-

The Hound and Arya broke their fast in silence, until Sandor said, "This thing about your mother..."

"It doesn't matter," Arya said in a dull voice. "I know she's dead. I saw her in a dream." The Hound looked at her a long time, then nodded. No more was said of it. He poured water on the small fire and readied Stranger again. They rode on toward the mountains of the Vale.

Arya had taken to riding the brown mare that they had taken from the Twins, she had taken to calling the horse Dirt. Sandor rode with Anya in front of him, trusting that the girl's concern for her aunt would keep her from galloping off and it did.

They made camp for the night far off the road near a small stream that twisted its way through a grove of trees. The Hound laid Anya by the fire and stared with a blank expression at her unanimated form. She was covered in filth from head to toe with a swollen cheek and eye, splotches of purple and blues were painted on her temple, there was a cut there too, caked with dirt. "When will she wake up?"

The Hound shrugged at the girl's question, "Don't know."

Arya tore a strip from her threadbare blanket and soaked it in water to remove the blood and dirt from her aunt's temple. It was strange to be the one tended to someone's hurts. She remembered times when Robb, Jon, and even Theon would play swords and climb trees with her. Sometimes she fell and skinned her knees or elbows and unwilling to hear her mother's laments about playing rough, she'd go to Anya, teary eyed and begging that she not tell Catelyn. The tides had drastically changed since them. Little by little the afflicted half of Anya's face was cleaned, and the extent of the bruise was revealed.

"Shouldn't we find a maester?" Arya asked as she looked over Anya's arms for any other damage. It was unfortunate that her face had been the thing to suffer all the damage.

Sandor shook his head, "You're aunt's going to be alright, girl, she's been through worse than this," it was the truth yet it didn't reassure him the way he thought it would. Frowning, he took the cloak from around his shoulders and draped it over her.


	28. Twenty-Six

Throughout the day she had only stirred twice but never fully woke. It made both Arya and Sandor hopeful that she would wake soon and their worry would be over. That night the two supped on a pond fish and wild onions, they had passed by an apple orchard prior in the day, though the single piece of fruit that was left had been saved for Anya upon Arya's insistence.

The fire was dying down, one of the larger pieces of wood fell and sparks fluttered up into the night sky like fireflies. Anya woke in a fit of violent coughing. Through the branches of a tree, she could see the night sky and the stars that looked down upon her. Whether they were smiling, cursing, or laughing at her she could not tell for the throbbing in her head. "Sandor," she shifted on her side to look at where he sat propped up against the thick trunk of an oak tree, half asleep, though at the sound of her voice he stirred.

"If I didn't know better I'd say that you're looking for ways to get killed," he grunted, showing no sign of relief or displeasure at her sudden state of consciousness. "Here," he helped her sit up and passed a wineskin that had been filled with water. Anya desperately wished it had been wine or something much stronger to wash away the horrors that she had seen while at the Twins and the aching of her body.

The Whent girl wiped her mouth on the bloodied sleeve of her tunic. The horrors came rushing back, washing over her like waves breaking on a rocky shoreline. "We were too late," she uttered in a hushed tone when her eyes met the Hound's he was taken aback by how broken and lost she looked. "We were too late," she said again, struggling against the tears that were dammed up in her wintry eyes.

Sandor frowned, "If we had been any earlier then you and her would've been dead too." Anya could only nod, knowing that he spoke the truth.

"Thank you," her voice cracked and turned into a whisper.

"For what?" he asked.

"For keeping Arya safe," she paused for a moment and looked at her hands that were dirtied by mud and blood alike, "and for finding me," she added, softer this time. The Whent girl couldn't meet his gaze, instead, she looked across the small fire where Arya lay in a sound sleep. The Hound said nothing. 

Even having been unconscious, Anya was tired. She pulled at her dented shoulder pauldrons and at the armor scaled shirt, stopping when a rough hand brushed against the back of her neck to lift on the damaged pauldrons. He deftly loosened the ties of the armored shirt and watched as she shrugged out it, folding it neatly next to her bedroll with the pauldrons atop it.

Sandor unclasped the cloak from around his neck and draped it over her. His hands trembled with uncertainty as he clasped it beneath her chin. Anya took his hands and held onto them for a moment. Her eyes raised to meet his and for a moment she felt as if she were staring up into the warm and loving eyes of Jory Cassel. _Everyone I know goes away in the end. I carry the curse of Harrenhal_. Anya frowned at her thoughts and released the Hound's hands but before she turned away from him, she raised up to her knees and leaned forward. Her lips brushed over his unburnt cheek, like the kiss of a butterfly, so quick and delicate that it may not have even happened.

- 

Arya pulled back on the bowstring and held her breath for only a second, her aunt observed her form and pushed down on her draw arm. "Good," Anya praised her form and the girl relaxed only to draw the string back and release all with a smooth and quick motion. The Whent girl smiled when the point of the arrow made a soft thudding noise in the trunk of the tree Arya had been aiming at. "I'm glad to see that you haven't forgotten what I taught you."

The girl handed the bow back to her aunt. Anya drew back the bowstring, wincing at the strain it put on her shoulder. She hardly took aim before loosing the arrow. It fell just above the one Arya had shot. The Whent girl smiled and looked down at the weapon, it felt good to have the weight of a bow in hand once more.

"I killed my first man," Arya spoke quietly and did not look up to meet her aunt's gaze. "A Frey, talking about Robb and the wedding," the iron coin that she fiddled with in her pocket had never felt heavier. _Valar morghulis_ , she wished to say, yet the words of her house were still heavy on her tongue, _winter is coming_.

"What did it feel like?" Anya was not sure she wished to hear the answer.

Arya raised her gaze to meet Anya's, "It felt good."

A chill ran through Anya's blood at the girl's admission. When she had first killed, it was a wildling and in the name of defense. It hadn't felt good to take the man's life, in fact, she heaved up the contents of her stomach and could not sleep soundly for weeks. The only time she had taken pleasure in killing had been during the Blackwater and even then realization and guilt settled upon her. Anya set her jaw in a hard line and said nothing else on the matter.

-

Arya tossed three wild pheasants down between her and the Hound and began pulling the feathers off. The girl followed his gaze to the stream where her aunt was bathing in an attempt to scrub all the mud and blood from her hair and skin. It was the first time she had bathed since the massacre at the Twins, for days she had went with the blood of Frey’s on her hands and face and mud in what seemed like every crevice. Sandor was finally pleased with the distance between them and any castle or road, they wouldn't stay long, but it would be good to have a day or twos rest before setting off again.

The Vale was their first destination, and if Lysa Arryn wouldn't take her niece then they would go to Riverrun and treat with the Blackfish presuming he hadn't been present at the Red Wedding, though that seemed unlikely.

Arya pulled out a handful of feathers and looked at the subject of the Hound's intense gaze, "You're staring at her again," she muttered.

Sandor grabbed one of the birds and began plucking feathers too, though with noticeably more force, "Shut your trap. I'm keeping watch," he gritted out.

Arya glared at him but he wasn't looking at her, he was still fixated on Anya and the way the water ran between the valley of her breasts in rivulets as she squeezed the filth from her honey hair, "No, you're looking my aunt like she's a piece of meat," the girl accused. 

"It isn't the first time I've seen her naked, girl." And it was wrong of him to hope it wouldn't be the last.

Water just covered the swells of her breasts and if he squinted he could see the jagged and puckered scar that was left from the Blackwater. Each time he caught a glimpse of that scar it always made him remember that accursed night and how she looked so much like death as blood seeped from the open wound down her chest and into her hair. He had seen plenty of blood, yet somehow he could not forget the sight of Anya Whent’s. _She bled the color of rose petals and it almost smelled sweet_. He could still hear her screams too.

"Do you like her?" Arya inquired. He made a gruff sound from the back of his throat that almost sounded like an ill-humored laugh. Arya sat aside the naked bird and picked up the last one, "I saw how you reacted when Thoros threatened her," she watched as the Hound's hands clenched and dug into the small pheasant, "how you look at her sometimes when she’s asleep." She thought it best not to mention the panic that had consumed his expression when he could not find her at the Twins or the relief that washed over him when he did. 

"Shut your mouth before I cut your tongue out, you little she-wolf," Arya smirked, it was all the confirmation she needed to know the truth.


	29. Twenty-Seven

The air in the tavern was dusky and humid, the ale stale, and the company less than desirable. One of the keeper’s daughters was squirming and crying as Lannister men groped and smacked her bottom. Anya swallowed hard to keep herself from intervening with either words or actions. She sat next to Sandor and Arya next to her, watching the men like a wolf prowling after a wounded lamb.

At first glance, they had pegged Sandor for the Hound, though none of them could name Arya or Anya as Starks or people of value to the crown. “Pour our new friend some ale,” the one who Arya had named as Polliver spoke and placed two tankards of ale on the splintering table before taking a seat on the opposite bench, on his hip lay a castle forged sword that was too small to belong to a man. “What brings you so far north?”

Sandor quaffed down the ale, “I could ask the same of you,” he bit back, not hiding the distaste in his voice, “What are you doing up here?” he asked.

Polliver shrugged, “Just keeping the king's peace.”

“No need,” Sandor retorted, “The war's over.”

“So I've heard. Stannis defeated at the Blackwater. Robb Stark killed at the Twins," his left eye twitched when he paused, glancing towards Arya and Anya. "And where am I for all of it? Stuck with your brother." The man’s talk of torture made Anya feel sick and for some odd reason she found herself silently praying that none of Robb’s men had fallen into their clutches. The castle of Harrenhal had been shamed even more. The Whent girl looked around the tavern and the band of misfits that had come to terrorize it. “You could do well for yourself. We certainly have been." Robbing, raping, and pillaging was what he meant, a strange expression came over Sandor’s face. He leaned over and spat on the dirt floor, taking another long swig of the warm ale.

“I'm not going to King's Landing," he declared.

“Think about it. We could do whatever we like wherever we go,” Polliver reasoned, tapping on the worn brown doublet that bore the lion of Lannister, “These are the king's colors. No one's standing in his way now. Which means no one's standing in ours.”

“Fuck the king,” the inn fell silent at the Hound’s brusque words. The way the corner of Arya's lips pulled upward was almost amusing if not for the way the men now rested their hands on the hilt of sharp swords, ready to bare their steel.

“When I heard that Joffrey's dog had tucked tail and run from the Battle of the Blackwater, I didn't believe it. But here you are.” The man looked at the Hound as if he were trying to size him up.

“Here I am," he mocked in return, "Bring me one of those chickens.”

“You got money to pay for it?” Polliver countered.

Sandor snorted, “You paid for it?”

“No, but we're the king's men,” he explained. “So, you got money?” Polliver asked again.

“Not a penny,” the Hound said, finishing off his tankard of ale, “I'll still take that chicken.”

“Tell you what. We'll trade you. One of our little chickens for one of yours," Polliver turned his hungry gaze to Anya and licked his lips. She reached for the dagger tucked away in her boot. "Give us a go at your friend. Lowell there likes them a bit broken in. She looks like a right good fuck too, pretty face, nice tits.” The Whent girl reddened, her eyes had gone wide with the burning stares of the king’s men on her. Sandor spared her a glance when he looked down at the table with a half-amused expression that was spoke of lurking danger.

“You’re a talker. Listening to talkers makes me thirsty,” he reached across the table and took the other tankard of ale, still full, and downed it all at once. “And hungry,” he continued, “think I’ll take two chickens.”

Polliver looked back over his shoulder at his men, seriously, “You don’t seem to understand the situation.”

“I understand that if any more words come pouring out your cunt mouth, I’m going to have to eat every fucking chicken in this room," Sandor words were laced with patronizing blasé. Had the situation been different such a sentence would have been laughable, but these were Lannister men. Anya gritted her teeth. The tension was palpable as was the hilt of the small dagger tucked away in her boot.

“You lived your life for the king, you going to die for some chickens?” Polliver asked.

“Someone is.” There was a moment of unreserved silence and stillness in the tavern. It ended abruptly when both parties stood, drawing arms. Anya pulled her sword from its sheath and the dagger from her boot, keeping Arya behind her as steel clashed against steel. They would focus on Sandor, he was the biggest threat despite their advantage in numbers.

On the opposite side of the room, the innkeeper and his daughter cowered back into a corner, neither had knowledge of how to use a sword, Anya doubted they even owned one. She dashed over to them and motioned towards the set of wooden stairs that led up to the loft. The girl pointed behind Anya with a shaking hand, the warning had given her time.

Anya turned on her heel, raising her sword to block the blade of the man who had swung down at her shoulder. She parried his strokes, once then twice before slamming the pommel of her sword into his nose and thrusting the point into his belly at the momentary distraction. The innkeeper and his daughter looked around at the growing number of bodies and prayed audibly to the Seven that they would not join the ranks of the dead on this day. Anya motioned toward the stairs that led to the loft. "Up the stairs, quickly now." They followed her command without hesitation.

Arya remained uninvolved and unhurt, though worry crossed over Anya's face when she did not see Sandor on his feet. He was on his back with two of the king's men kicking each of his sides. There was no thought to her actions only instinct. Neither had taken notice of her approaching until she had thrust her sword forward and through one of the men’s neck. He struggled for only a second before he went limp as a bonefish. The shock of it had given the Hound enough time to stand. For a moment, they stood back to back until he pushed her away and back towards her niece.

Lowell stumbled on his hands and knees, pulling himself back up but Anya was there before he could stand. He groveled on the floor for his sword but it was too late. He had not felt the cold bite of steel against his throat at first, but rather the warmth running over his shoulders and down his front. He grasped deftly at his throat trying to stop the bleeding, by then he had fallen face down and unmoving.

-

"I'm glad you got Needle back," Arya looked up from the thin blade that Jon had given her before they left Winterfell, she had been cleaning it with a small rag. The girl's smile was weak as her aunt sat next to her and gently slipped the sword from her hands, it was well balanced with a grip fitted to a small hand. She would have loved to have such a blade at Arya’s age.

"I miss him," Arya admitted. She didn't need to name the one she spoke of, Anya already knew it was Jon.

Anya nodded, "Yes, him and Benjen both."

Arya's brows furrowed in question, "but Uncle Benjen," she didn't have time to finish the statement before Anya had cut her off. "I know what they said Arya, but I won't believe it," Anya's voice cracked, she shook her head to stop herself from crying, "I can't believe it." _He's still out there_ , she thought, _I feel it in my bones_.

"Can we practice?" Arya asked, standing with her small sword in hand.

"With sticks, yes." A momentary flash of disappointment flashed over Arya's face at her aunt's words, she picked up Needle's scabbard, it was made of soft grey leather, supple as sin. Anya searched around the trunks of trees for two study sticks that could pose as swords. When she found a second one that was roughly the length and girth of Needle she tossed it to Arya and took a defensive stance that the girl mimicked.

The Whent girl held little back, that was how Brandon and Ned treated her when she was learning to fight in the yard at Winterfell. Each bruise and failure had made her better. Arya parried many of the thrusts and swipes but still Anya came at her, thwacking her sides and calves with just enough force so the girl could recognize her weak spots. The fourth time Arya had been knocked onto her back was when Anya tossed away her stick and held out her hand. "They will always underestimate you, Arya, use that to your advantage."

The two sat by one of the many streams that would feed into the Trident. Anya filled all their skins with the fresh cool water but now she simply looked down at the cobbles of the streambed with a hollowness in her head and heart. "How does it make you feel?" Arya asked.

"What?" Anya countered, not understanding the meaning of her question.

"When you kill a man," she clarified.

The breath fled from her lungs and suddenly a bilious sensation rose in her stomach. This was not something she had ever anticipated speaking about, it was something she often had trouble understanding herself. She thought of the wilding and how he had been set on killing both her and Jory in the woods. That seemed to be the logical place to start, "When I killed that wildling I felt sick and despite what Lord Rickard, Benjen, and Ned told me I retched up everything I ate for the next day and couldn't sleep for weeks. Then in King's Landing when the Lannisters and City Watch turned on us I was frightened, I did it to survive, to get to Sansa. I killed those men because I had to."

Anya paused and looked hard at her hands, even now she had blood under her nailbeds and no amount of scrubbing could get rid of the putrid color. "At the Blackwater, I tried to convince myself that it felt good to cut down the king's men, whether they were Joffrey's or Stannis's. Then at the Twin's when I realized what was happening I did it to get to your mother and brother but we were too late and I did it for revenge, out of anger and sadness."

"And today?" Arya wanted to know.

"Today I felt nothing. No satisfaction, no guilt," her voice had gone monotonous, there was no point in lying to Arya about it. She hadn't felt anything as she slit Lowell's neck, or impaled another on her blade. "Nothing," she whispered and the hollowness within her grew.

Anya sat next to Sandor once Arya was asleep, her hands clasped in front of her and head lowered in some kind of unspoken defeat. "Are we still just ransom to you?" When he did not answer a deep anger welled up inside her. She had to make him see that there was no one that would willingly pay him if they could even be reached. He'd turn them over and then he'd be killed for what he did under Joffrey's command. "Riverrun is under siege and you're a fool to think Lysa Arryn would take us. The woman was always jealous of Catelyn and it turned her into a bitch. She has no love for her nieces and nephews."

Sandor looked at her, "Then where am I going to take the two of you?"

Anya meet his gaze for a moment before glancing back at the stars, _I wonder what Jon sees when he looks up at the stars_. "North, to the Wall.” Sandor scoffed, there were a thousand leagues between where they were now and the bloody Wall and even more men that would try to stand in their way. Part of him said he’d kill them all if it meant that he got to see the little rose smile again. “Or across the Narrow Sea to Braavos,” she supplemented but that was nigh impossible. They hadn’t coin to pay for passage on a ship.

Something about the hope in her voice made him uneasy, he didn’t quite understand the way she looked at him either. He’d rather see people cower in fear at the sight of him than be faced with the way she looked at him. "Should have let them take you back there at the tavern," he muttered without thinking on it.

He had spoken out of frustration, out of anger, out of fear even though he would not admit to that. He knew that she was right. There was nowhere in Westeros that would take them. House Stark was gone, the Tullys would be likely be extinguished by the end of the season, and Lysa Arryn would not risk being pulled into what remained of the war. Those wintry eyes that had cut through him so many times were wide with consternation, heavy breaths escaped her parted, "You don't mean that," she croaked.

Sandor looked at her for a long moment and had never hated her more. He turned to stare through the trees and into the quiet night. "No, little rose, I don't," he offered the words to her but was unsure if she could wholly believe them.


	30. Twenty-Eight

"Where are we?" Arya asked, pulling up a small bundle of turnips from the damp soil.

"Near Fairmarket, I think," the Hound rasped with no small amount of annoyance. Not a day went by that Arya did not ask of their location, and every day she was rewarded with the same vague answer. Anya shook her head at the two in amusement and led her mount to a rill that they had come upon.

"You think?" Arya scrunched up her face, "You don't have a map?" She continued picking off the pieces of root from a handful of turnips that they'd found off the road. "No, I don't have a map," Sandor bit back, ignoring the undertones of ridicule that had been laced with the girl's words.

"Maybe we should get one," Arya suggested, shrugging as she sat down on a smooth boulder. Sandor stooped down to fill a cantle bag with water for Stranger. "Just point out the next map shop you see and I'll buy you one," he grunted, standing back to full height.

The Whent girl took a seat next to Arya and pointed at the few trees in the road clearing, "The trees," Anya began, looking down at her niece, "the moss grows on the north side." She couldn't remember who had told her that, maybe it was Benjen, or Jory, might have even been the old maester at Harrenhal. Even that didn't seem to fully convince Arya that they were traveling in the right the direction.

"Are you're sure we're going the right way?" Arya asked again, not quite believing that moss could work as a map. Anya couldn't tell if the question had been directed at her or Sandor.

"Believe me, girl," the Hound started, "I want you gone so I can be on my way." Anya looked in his direction, her eyes held a strange sort of hollowness, she wouldn't let him see how those words cut through her. _Heard there's a Dragon Queen too. Might be she'd like a proper lady in her court_ , he had told her what now must have been months ago yet those hopes had vanished.

"On your way where?" Arya inquired, perhaps out of sheer curiosity.

"Why do you care?" The Hound snapped back, but then his harsh gaze wandered to Anya and softened, "Might book passage across the Narrow Sea. Fight as a sellsword. Second Sons could be. Seems like a good fit for me."

"Seven blessings to you," a man and his young daughter stopped atop the small stone bridge, each looking down at the small band of misfits weary from travel.

Sandor eased his hand down the hilt of his sword, "What do you want?"

"What do I want?" the man asked, almost amused, "This is my land."

"If I'm standing on it, it's my land," the Hound refuted, not backing down from what would obviously be a one-sided fight. Arya stood and the man's gaze was drawn over to her, "We were just watering the horses. We'll be on our way," the answer seemed sufficient enough as the man picked up the reins to his cart mules. "Forgive my father," the girl added without instruction and hesitance, "he was wounded fighting in the war. Our cottage burned down while he was gone and my mother with it. He's never been the same."

Anya looked at her niece and Sandor and finally up at the man and his daughter, gauging to see if the lie was transparent. "Which house did he fight for?"

_Choose carefully_ , Anya thought, mentioning the wrong house in times like these was a dangerous thing to do. "The Tullys of Riverrun," Arya responded without indecision.

"There's a storm coming," the farmer said, looking from the road-weary travelers to the clouds that were heavy with rain. "You'll be wanting a roof tonight. There's fresh hay in the barn. And Sally here makes rabbit stew just like her mom used to do," he paused and looked at the Hound with hesitance, "We don't have much, but any man that bled for House Tully is welcome to it."

The horses were settled into the stables for the night with hay and water, their bedrolls and thin blankets were spread out among the heaps of loose straw on both the floor and the loft. Anya looked around the small house as thunder clapped in the night. Bowls and dishes were set around, catching the water that leaked through the rotting thatch roof. The table was set with five wooden cups and bowls, in the center was a loaf of dark rye bread next to the steaming pot of rabbit stew. Anya frowned as her stomach released an anticipatory grumble, the hearty scent alone had drool forming in her mouth.

"Let us pray," their host said and simultaneous they lowered their heads, "We ask the Father to judge us with mercy accepting our human frailty. We ask the Mother to bless our crops so we may feed ourselves and all who come to our door. We ask the Warrior to give us courage in these days of strife and turmoil," the man looked at his smiling daughter and continued. "We ask the Maiden to protect Sally's virtue to keep her from the clutches of depravity." Though before the Smith could be mentioned Sandor interrupted the prayer with a gruff and lusty voice, "You got to do all seven of the fuckers?"

Anya felt her face turn red at his insensitive remark. "Father!" Arya exclaimed. The farmer looked between the three and bowed his head once more. Sandor and Arya were looking at the stew with a ravenous gaze, Anya desperately tried to ignore the strange feeling in her gut. The prayer continued, "We ask the Smith to strengthen our hands and our backs so we may finish the work required of us. We ask the Crone to guide us on our journey from darkness to darkness-"

"-and we ask the Stranger not to kill us in our beds tonight for no damn reason at all," the Hound finished, seizing the pot of stew to fill his bowl. Anya flushed with discomposure as Arya took the pot next. The Whent girl's manners, however, had not been entirely forgotten, she reached for the ladle and spooned a scoop into her own bowl, breaking off a hunk of the warm bread.

"It's really good," Arya muttered, broth dripping down her chin. Sally looked up from her own portion with a weak smile.

"Did you fight at the Twins?" Anya looked up from her bowl and bread at the question. It felt like the air had been forced from her lungs as she quick still images of that dreaded night flashed through her mind.

"Call that a fight?" The Hound snorted, "slaughtering livestock more like."

The farmer sat his spoon aside and reached for his cup of water, "The Red Wedding they're calling it. Walder Frey committed sacrilege that day. He shared bread and salt with the Starks. He offered them guest right."

Sandor wiped his mouth on his sleeve, almost laughing, "Guest right don't mean much anymore."

"It means something to me," the man replied, taking a hunk of brown bread for himself, "The gods will have their vengeance. Frey will burn in the seventh hell for what he did. Things were different when Hoster Tully ruled the Riverlands. We had good years and bad years, same as anyone. But we were safe. Now with the Freys, raiders come plundering, steal our food, and steal our silver. I was gonna send Sally north to stay with my brother, but the north's no better. The whole country's gone sour."

Anya wondered what had become of Winterfell since Theon captured the castle for the Ironborn, she wanted to know what had become of Bran and Rickon. Suddenly her appetite seemed to vanish and sighing she sat her spoon down and drank the cool water to rinse the sourness of those thoughts from her mouth. "You got any ale?" Sandor blurted out.

"Afraid not," the farmer answered, he was poking now at the stew as well. Sandor cast a short glance to Sally, "How can a man not keep ale in his home?" he asked in a low voice, but the girl only looked up with wide eyes.

"You look like you could really swing that sword. A real warrior with proper training. Those raiders wouldn't stand a chance against you. How would it be if you stayed on till the new moon? I could use a man to help with the farm work. Sally does what she can, but she can't lift a bale of hay. And if any thieves came looking for easy pickings, one look at you, I'd bet they'd run the other way," he paused and looked at the breadth of the Hound, the scarred half of his face, "Meaning no offense," the farmer added hastily.

"What'll you pay?" the Hound asked.

"I don't have much," the farmer said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "But I have hidden a bit of silver from the bandits. Fair wages for fair work?"

"Fair wages for fair work," the Hound agreed, to the surprise of both Arya and Anya. Conversation didn't persist after that. The house of silent in the moments after Sandor and Arya left for the barn. Their host seemed to forget that she was still there until she stood from the creaking table and bench.

Anya picked up both Sandor and Arya's bowls, like hers, they were empty. "You don't have to help, miss," the farmer interjected, reaching for the stack of dirty bowls.

"I insist," she replied with a smile, it was the least she could do to repay him for his kindness. He scrubbed the wooden bowls with a wiry brush and passed them for Anya to rinse in her small wash basin. "A strange group the three of you," he said after a moment of silence.

She smiled. "Yes, but we're family." Sally caught her attention, she was sewing, repairing on of her father's shirts with a steady hand and quiet diligence. Septa Nyla would have much preferred those traits in Anya when she was that age. The farmer looked at Anya with an odd expression and suddenly she felt as if he had been able to see through her façade.

"The girl is my niece," she began and that was where the truth ended, "my sister died in that fire and not even a fortnight later my village was raided. It was mere luck that my marriage-brother arrived when he did." Lying made Anya's stomach churn, she could almost feel bile rising in her throat. Yet the lie was so well versed that any who heard it would not dare to deny its truth.

When the bowls were cleaned and she had spoken to Sally about her excellent needlework, Anya pulled her cloak around her as tightly as she could manage and rushed out of the small cottage and into the storm. Both Sandor and Arya were asleep and soon she was as well.

-

Anya bolted from the barn door when she heard yelling and the cries of a young girl. She took one look at the farmer and his daughter as they cowered back against the wood siding of their home and stormed up the road where Arya and Sandor were arguing. "He took us in. He fed us and you—," Arya was cut off by the Hound, "Aye, he took us in. He's a good man and his daughter makes a nice stew. And they'll both be dead come winter."

"You don't know that," Arya confuted and Sandor turned back to face the girl, "I do know it. He's weak. He can't protect himself. They'll both be dead come winter," the Hound held up the small pouch of coin, "and dead men don't need silver."

"You're the worst _shit_ in the Seven Kingdoms," Arya screamed.

"There's plenty worse than me," he stated in a flat voice, "I just understand the way things are. How many Starks they got to behead before you figure it out?" Anya stopped in her tracks, her ears burning in resentment. Her stomach felt uneasy as she recalled the day that Ned had been executed and the way the Freys had laughed as they killed Grey Wind and sawed off the wolf's head. She stomped ahead of Arya and blocked his path on the dirt road.

"Half," she spat with iron resolve. The Hound furrowed his brow, the mass of black scar tissue around his eye twitched. "We've made do without coin for this long. Give them back half," the veins at her temples were bulging in her anger. "I know you aren't going to give it all back, so half."

The Hound snorted in derision, "You want to waste good silver on a dead man and his girl?" Anya frowned. She knew the farmer and his daughter were not fighters, but gentle folk, the kind stronger men liked to prey on yet it did not give them any less reason live for as long as they could. The Whent girl drew her sword in stony determination, but Sandor only laughed again, this time he actually seemed amused. "And now what, you gone fight me?"

He was quicker than any man his size had the right to be when he drew his sword from its sheath. In one hard swing, he knocked her sword from her hand and kicked it away before she could recover it. Anya set aside all reason and puffed out her chest in indignation but before she could draw the dagger from her boot he had picked her up and thrown her over his shoulder like nothing more than a sack of grain. "Sandor Clegane, you put me down!" She beat on his back and tried to kick him but it did little to stop him from leaving the small farm behind.

"Shut your trap, woman," he snapped, snatching up Stranger's reigns and leading the horse up the road.


	31. Twenty-Nine

Within a fortnight the stolen silver was gone, it had been spent on a room at an old inn and enough ale and wine that they didn't even set out again until the mid afternoon for the Hound's drunken stupor. "The two of your aren't worth this much trouble," he had garbled, his gaze transfixed on the Whent girl and the way the fire cast shadows on her face. It brought back the warmth he remembered from the nights at _The Laughing Thief_ yet it made her face look hollow and gaunt. His poor little rose was wilting before his eyes and in the moment he couldn't have given a damn if she fell over dead. 

"We won't make it past the hill tribes on the High Road and even if we do Lysa Arryn won't be the one to greet us at the Bloody Gate." It was a waste of her breath to tell him anything whilst he was this inebriated, but she did anyways. She hoped that he might listen to her a bit more while he was drunk since everything she told him when he was sober went in one ear and out the other. He had passed out sitting at one of the tables and would stay there until after midday. 

The following day there was an uneasy silence between Anya and Sandor, even Arya could sense that something was wrong, something was changing. They continued onward towards the Vale and slowly the gently rolling hills of the Riverlands transitioned into steeper hills with crags jutting from the landscape after crossing the Green Fork.

Camp had been made along one of the tributaries of the Green Fork, the trees had grown sparse and not for the first night did they lay beneath the open sky with all the stars looking down upon them. It was one of those nights that Anya turned to lay on her side, looking across the small fire at Sandor, who like her, had yet to find sleep. But there was little to be said between them, after all, she was only a purse of gold to him. He had made that clear on several occasions. 

So she turned her eyes back to the stars and wondered if Jon could see the same night sky, or if he saw something completely different. After all, there didn't seem to be much of a difference in the sky compared to the long nights growing up in Winterfell. _Gentle mother, look after him, and to the Old Gods, I ask you to do the same_.  

The dawn had come and with it another day of slow travel. Anya and Arya rode together, speaking of odd topics and memories, anything to keep darker thoughts at bay. Anya had even promised to practice with Arya in the morning, this time with real swords and not sticks. 

"We're still another week away from reaching the Mountains of the Moon," Anya commented with a deep frown as the sun began to dip below the curve of the land. They were losing the light of day sooner with each passing week.

"Winter is coming." Arya echoed the words of House Stark and she cursed the Starks for being right. The signs were here from the withering plants to the shortening days. Winter _was_ coming, just as Ned had promised, and if they didn't make it to the Vale then they would be no better off than that poor farmer the Hound stole a half-empty purse of silver from.

Anya looked across the dying campfire at Sandor, picking at the wild onions and turnips she had found, "We could set off earlier or ride further into the night." He didn't reply but for a gruff noise that came from the back of his throat. Her frown deepened. 

When her niece was asleep, Anya stood and moved around the fire, sitting down next to where the Hound lay. His perpetual silence was driving her to madness. "Why do you not speak to me anymore?" Sandor rolled over, putting his back toward her but Anya would have none of it, she yanked his arm back and forced the brute of a man to turn back to face her.

"Fuck off," he gritted out. Anya raised her hand to slap him but he caught her wrist and pushed her away. She sat up on her knees and punched the Hound's back for good measure, all he did was snort in disport.

"You're the most stubborn, pig-headed, imbecilic person I've ever met!" Anya almost shouted at him, she despised whatever it was that drove the first rift between the two of them.

"My pleasure, little rose," Sandor replied with mock chivalry, the flames cast dark shadows on the scarred half of his face and made the puckered marks look as if they were oozing afresh. Anya retreated to her own bedroll and crossed her arms. "I hate you," she snapped and he almost laughed.

"That makes two of us," he resounded.

-

After nigh a month of strenuous walking off the beaten road uphill and downhill, they had reached the foot of the mountains. It was growing harder to find streams and there were hardly any animals worth catching for the amount of meat they'd give. The traveling was beginning to take its toll on all three of them.

In the higher hills, they came upon a tiny isolated village surrounded by grey-green sentinels and tall blue soldier pines, and Sandor Clegane decided to risk going in despite better judgment. "We need food," he said, "and a roof over our heads. They're not like to know what happened at the Twins, and with any luck, they won't know me."

Anya did not see how that was possible. By now news of what happened at the Twins would have spread from Dorne to the Wall and even across the Narrow Sea. And if Sandor was so confident in his reputation then it was likely they would know who he was as well. She shifted in Stranger's saddle, feeling Arya grip onto the thin tunic on her back.

The villagers were building a wooden palisade around their homes, and when they saw the breadth of the Hound's shoulders they offered them food and shelter and even coin for work with hardly any questions. "If there's wine as well, I'll do it," he growled at the village elder. In the end, he settled for ale and drank himself to sleep each night. It was a stark contrast to his behavior towards the farmer and his daughter.

"What can you do woman?" The village elder didn't like the idea of a woman helping with the palisade, nor the thought of her teaching the women how to wield a sword or string and shoot a bow, not even to hunt.

"Cook? Help your maester with the wounded and sick?" Such answers sufficed and the elder pointed her in the direction of an old cabin with rows of herbs and flowers growing off to the side.

The village didn't have a maester but they did have an herbal witch, an old hag of a woman. She was thin as a twig with gossamer thin hair, withered fingers, and a crooked nose that had been broken too many time to heal properly. Wenylla Stassohr was her name; from the Free City of Pentos, or so she claimed. 

Anya took to helping her prepare salves and draughts for the sick and wounded. There was no coin in the work, only practice and the opportunity to keep a portion of what was made each day, though it was like to sour before it could be put to use.

The few children of the village had taken to Anya right away and for a brief time, she felt like she was back at Winterfell. With Robb and Theon chasing after one another in the courtyard, Jon and Arya playing princesses and dragons. Sansa would be having tea with Jeyne and the other girls of the castle, Bran would have only just begun to climb, and Rickon would still be at his mother's breast. 

When there were not draughts to be made or poultices to be ground, Anya found that she enjoyed watching the palisade be constructed. On some days she would catch Sandor at work, with sweat on his brow and his undershirt clinging to his muscled chest and back and she hated herself for the thoughts that prodded their way into her mind. 

Whenever he took his axe to chop some wood for a fire, he would slide into a cold rage, hacking savagely at the tree or the deadfall or the broken limb, until they had twenty times as much kindling and firewood as they'd needed. Sometimes he would be so sore and tired afterward that he would lie down and go right to sleep without even lighting a fire or speaking a single word. Anya hated those nights the most.

Other times, she and Arya would practice whether it be with swords or a roughly made bow. It was slipping into a comfortable routine. One evening when the work was halfway done and Anya had returned from helping treat a sick child she asked, "What if we stay here for a while longer?" 

The Hound sat down his tankard of ale, looking down at the bowl of stew that had been prepared by the village cook and thought on it for a long moment before shrugging. It didn't seem all that bad, there was food, shelter, ale, and more protection than they could ever hope to find on the road. Arya didn't like that idea one bit, but to Anya and Sandor it seemed to be a good alternative to constantly hiding and fighting. 

But when another week passed and the work was done and the tall wooden palisade was finished, the village elder made it plain that there was no place for them. "Come winter, we will be hard pressed to feed our own," he explained with no lack of haste, "And you... a man like you brings blood with him." Sandor made a gruff noise upon seeing that the village had known who he was all along.

They saddled the horses, took what little provisions could be offered and continued on the beaten road to the Eyrie with a coin purse that had been rightfully earned. 

-

"Gods above," she whispered.

A mountain of bodies rose above them, the corpses stiff and grimacing. Their clothes were soaked in blood, and the churned ground was stained with it. Slaughtered men lay over the women they had tried to protect, mothers still clasped their children, and lovers who had tried to shield each other rested in death's cold embrace. Arrows stuck out of them all. Neither young nor old had been spared. But worst of all was the barbed spear that rose out of the peak of the pile, impaling the white body of a baby. Tears blurred in Anya's vision and she tried to look away, but the dead faces held her attention.

The charred remains of what were once homes and shops still smoldered. Livestock had been slaughtered too, cattle and hogs were left to rot with slit throats and hacked off limbs, even the horses had not been spared. The air was rancid with the scent of burning hair and flesh. Arya kicked one of the half-burned boards and a small flame sprouted to life for a brief second before withering away to smoke once more.

Sandor had found the lone survivor propped up against a wooden cart that still had straw piled up in the back. He told them he was Ser Marq Piper's man; a bowman, though he'd lost his bow. His left shoulder was all twisted and swollen where it met his arm; a blow from a mace, he said, it had broken his shoulder and smashed his chainmail deep into his flesh. 

"I tried to stop them." His eyes were fever bright when he said that, and Anya could tell that it was true. His shoulder was swollen grotesquely, and pus and blood had stained his whole left side. There was a stink to him too. He smelled like a corpse. 

The man begged them for a drink of wine. "If I'd had any wine, I'd have drunk it myself," the Hound told him. "I can give you water, and the gift of mercy."

The archer looked at him a long while before he said, "You're Joffrey's dog."

Sandor was none too pleased at the revelation that the dying man knew him, "My own dog now. Do you want the water?"

"Aye," the man swallowed, "and the mercy. Please."

They had passed a small pond a short ways back. Sandor gave Arya his helm and told her to fill it, so she trudged back to the water's edge. Mud squished over the toe of her boots. She used the dog's head as a pail. Water ran out through the eyeholes, but the bottom of the helm still held a lot. When she came back, the archer turned his face up and she poured the water into his mouth. He gulped it down as fast as she could pour, and what he couldn't gulp ran down his cheeks into the brown blood that crusted his whiskers until pale pink tears dangled from his beard.

The Hound eased his dagger into the man's chest almost tenderly, the weight of his body driving the point through his surcoat, ringmail, and the quilting beneath. As he slid the blade back out and wiped it on the dead man, he looked at both Anya and Arya but kept his gaze on the latter. "That's where the heart is, girl. That's how you kill a man."

 


	32. Thirty

Anya frowned as she washed out the wound on Sandor's neck. It needed to be cauterized and have proper treatment from a maester or herbal witch, but neither of those was feasible options at the moment. They were deep within the Vale now, nearing the Eyrie, alas. Her hands fumbled around with the few supplies they had that could be of use. She had torn a piece of linen from her undershirt, folding it in two before covering the bite with the fabric and laying his tunic and metal rings back over the broken flesh.

A pair of bandits had come upon them after they had met the dying archer. Biter and Rorge had been what Arya named them, prisoners of Yoren who were supposed to be at the Wall by now and sworn into the Night's Watch. They were both dead now. Sandor had snapped Biter's neck and Arya had stuck Rorge with Needle. "You'll medicine for that once we reach the Eyrie." Sandor huffed in response and stood to saddle Stranger.

In truth, it didn't quite feel like what was occurring was real. The High Road had been clear thus far, the mountain clans and shadowcats hid within the trees and hills, not daring to come out. Anya had found herself praying again, asking both the Old Gods and the New to keep their path clear, to let them arrive safely and with welcome.

Slowly the road became narrower until it seemed that there wasn't even enough room for two horses to pass by one another. From the top of one of the mountains, Anya could see the Eyrie, ancestral castle of House Arryn, looming over the landscape. Formidable and impregnable. A safe haven that could not come soon enough.

There were two long parapets built into the stone of the mountains. The pass, narrow where it met the gate, was watched over by twin watchtowers, which were joined by a covered bridge of grey stone that arched above the road. Some archers had their bows drawn already, others rested with hands uneasily over the hilt of their sheathed swords.

"Who would pass the Bloody Gate?" the Knight of the Gate called, looking down at the small narrow pass and the three road weary travelers that stood before the massive gate.

"The bloody Hound," Sandor called, pulling at the gorget around his neck that rubbed against what he had so stubbornly begun calling a 'flea bite.' It was a flea bite that was beginning to fester and slow him down.

Anya could name the Knight as Donnel Waynwood by the crest that he wore over his breast. A broken black wheel on a vert field. It was after his lady mother that she had been named. "And your companions?" Donnel inquired, there was no haste in his manners to have his men lower their weapons.

Sandor looked down at both the lady and her niece, "Lady Anya Stark and Arya Stark, kin to your Lady Lysa." It was that statement that the archers returned their arrows to their quivers and the swordsmen laxed their grip on sword hilts.

The Knight of the Gate stepped down from his post to the narrow walkway that spanned across the gate. "It will grieve you to know then that Lady Lysa died three days ago."

Anya felt sick at hearing those words. Her tears had not come from anguish about Catelyn's sister but from the fact that now they would not find welcome here in the Eyrie. They would be turned away. She stepped forward, "May we seek refuge and pay our respects?"

Donnel shook his head and resumed his position on a high seat, "Lord Arryn and Lord Baelish are not accepting guests at the moment." Anya bristled at the mention of Littlefinger, but nothing more was said. It was clear they were being turned away for the way the archers resumed to draw arrows and the swordsmen bared their steel.

By nightfall, they had reached the end of the High Pass. It took an hour to gather enough wood and kindling to make a fire, another hour to find anything worth catching to eat.

Arya hadn't said much over the course of the day, she had laughed at the irony of her aunt's death and accused the Hound of being slower since the bite on his neck was near festering. Now she lay on a bedroll reciting the names as she did every night.

At this point, Anya didn't care if the shadowcats came out or the mountain tribes decided to join them. She picked at her food with a soured expression. _He never loved Lysa, it was Catelyn he wanted_ , the death of Lysa Arryn did not sit well with the Whent girl _. Everything bad that happens to this family comes back to him_. That night, Anya dreamed of all the ways she wished to kill Petyr Baelish and hoped that one day they could become reality.

The next days passed with an agonizing slowness. The mountains that had passed so quickly on the road now seemed to stretch on for endless miles. Finally, they had come to a spot under the cover of soldier pines with a small creek that the three of them were in no rush to leave. Anya's damp cloak hung from a low hanging branch, now she knelt on the bank again and scrubbed at the blood stains on her overtunic.

For the first time since King's Landing, she found it within herself to sing a tune that Benjen and she used to sing as children.

" _When winter first begins to bite_

_and stones crack in the frosty night,_

_when pools are black and trees are bare,_

_'tis evil in the wild to fare_."

"I thought you said you couldn't sing," Sandor interrupted, he sounded drunk but Anya knew they had no wine or ale. She stood and wrung the water from her outer shirt, clutching it tightly in her hands.

"What do we do now?" She had not dared to ask that question yet, but it was time, they couldn't remain on the road for much longer with winter on the horizon. There wasn't anywhere left for them to go except north or across the sea.

Anya didn't know what was happening, really, she had been wringing the water from her hair when his breath danced across her lips and when she opened her eyes, he was there. Not even an inch from her, but it wasn't because he wished to kiss her as much as she wished that would be the reason. "Sandor?" His face had gone pale and seconds later his knees gave way. She caught him beneath his arms and tried her best to support his weight while calling out for Arya to help her.

That was where they made camp for the night, right by the stream. Arya caught two rabbits and had then skinned by the time the Hound woke from his bout of fever. Grease dripped down from their browning skin and into the flames and sizzled on the rocky ground. Anya still sat next to him, wiping the sweat from his brow with a damp strip of fabric from her cloak.

Arya was wiping an oiled cloth over Needle the following morning, whilst Anya dealt with the Hound and the festering of the 'flea bite' on his neck. She had tended to it the best she could, trying to keep it clean and covered. To burn off the dead skin would have been the easiest way to go about treating it but she didn't dare mention the thought to him.

He was feverish again and wouldn't be able to hold his own on a horse. "Now's not the time for stubbornness, Sandor, that bite is septic, you need medicine," Anya stood and wiped her hands on her pants, irritated, "There was a village near, I'll be able to get medicine and some food to bring back." Anya moved towards Arya's horse and checked the buckles and ties of the saddle though before she could mount, Sandor had brought his black destrier to her by the reins, stumbling across the uneven ground.

"Take Stranger." He lifted her onto the back of Stranger and let his hand slide to her knee, the other still held onto the reins of his horse, "It was a day's ride northwest," he reminded her, Anya nodded and carefully let her hand slip over his, a small gesture that she meant for him to understand was more than just a touch. He nodded and she pressed her heels into the black horse and trotted off.

By the late evening, she had found the village, most of its inhabitants were in a tavern except for those who ran small shops. The storekeepers turned her away as did the apothecary. Their stores were low and they claimed to only do business with the townsfolk, not strangers. She didn't entirely believe that, but even her gold and silver could not persuade them, nor the weight her name carried.

She was tired and her stomach grumbled in protest of the long day, she needed food and Stranger needed water and straw after the hard ride. Anya returned to the black destrier and pressed her forehead against his neck in exhaustion. At one time the horse would have bucked and bit at her for such an action but not now, Stranger whinnied softly and bent his forelegs so she could mount him easier.

They were an old couple, both white of hair with kind faces. Anya spurred Stranger ahead and came to a halting stop in front of their horse and cart. Fear seized the couple, yet it faded as they saw her pleading and tear stricken face. "My husband is wounded and I cannot protect my daughter alone. There are wolves and lions everywhere, please I beg for what help you may offer." It was clear the couple was taken aback from her approach and request. The woman looked at her husband and squeezed his hand. "I have coin, I can pay," Anya dumped out part of the coin purse showing gold, silver, and bronze.

The man nodded, "Follow along and we'll help as much as we can." The old wife prepared a quick stew and the husband gathered up what medicine and supplies they could spare to give in dire times. After paying for what she had been given Anya started toward where she had picketed Stranger.

"Stay the night, it's dangerous to be out on your own." The man led Stranger to their stables and saw to it that he had straw and water. Anya wrapped up in a blanket before the hearth and tried to sleep. 

As the morning light broke, Anya woke and gathered what she had paid for and slung the pack over her shoulders before saddling Stranger and setting off.

-

The sun was beginning to set when she came back to what had been their campsite. Coals from their fire were still smoking. A single bedroll was laid out but that was it. Stranger stamped his hooves into the ground and fear seized Anya's heart. Arya's mare, Craven, was nowhere in sight, not grazing in the grass or drinking by the stream, her small pouch of belongings was gone too. The panic set in, “Arya!” It was dangerous to be so loud with killers and marauders crawling over the land, but it didn't matter, not now. Anya had a sword and proper training and she needed to find her niece, she wouldn't lose another Stark. "ARYA!"

Had it not been for Stranger's disobedience she would have never found him nestled at the foot of a hill. Anya slipped off the back of the horse and fell at his side. The bone of his right leg had been snapped and tore through flesh and fabric. His armor had been ripped from one of his shoulders. The entity of his face was covered in dirt and dried blood. "Sandor," she tried to shake him but he did not respond and suddenly tears sprung up in her eyes.

"Don't die," she choked out the words and bit her lip, hard. "Don't die on me, Sandor Clegane," she pleaded.  _I carry the curse of Harrenhal in my blood_ , _everyone I love dies_. Anya stood and looked around once more but there was no one else. She was alone. "Arya!" There came no response, her niece was gone.

Anya took the pack from Stranger's back and shifted through the contents, finding a jar of homebrewed liquor that the couple had been able to offer up. They had told her it worked just as well as vinegar or boiled wine for cleaning wounds. She tore off another piece of linen from her cloak and drenched the fabric in the liquor before wiping the dirt and blood away from his shoulder.

The burn of the alcohol had woken him, he didn't look long enough to see that it was Anya and out of instinct he wrapped his hand around her throat but was too weak to squeeze. "Sandor! It's me," she pulled his bloody hand away from her neck and hung her head forward, "it's only me." Anya wasn't sure if he recognized her or if he was even coherent enough to realize what she had just said. 

It was then she noticed his hands, the palms had been sliced down to the muscle, she cleaned those too but did not dare to test her needlework to stitch them, instead she bound the wounds with fresh bandages. She did what little she could do with minimal supplies and practice and feared all the while that it would not be enough to heal her wounded hound. She hovered over him. Ever diligent, and watched, and waited, and loved, and cried. 

When night fell she built a small fire and roasted a small sliver of cured meat on the point of her sword. Anya took the saddle blanket off of Stranger and wrapped it around her shoulders, keeping a watchful eye on Sandor. Halfway through the night when the world was quiet, Anya laid down, her head resting on his torso, her sword in reach.


	33. Thirty-One

One full day had passed. He already smelled of death and only drank water despite the need to eat as well. The few words exchanged were harsh and bitter, thrice he had asked her to end it all and thrice she had refused him for solely selfish reasons. She cried into his broken armor and found herself praying, to the Seven, to the Old Gods, to whoever would listen to her. Once she had wished him dead but now she would do anything to take back such words. The sun had risen and set and no help came.

The clacking of wheels along the rough road woke her from resting, she intercepted the traveler with a panicked haste. He was dressed in the simple brown robes of a brother of the Seven. "Can you help me?" She pointed to the cliff bottom and he veered off the worn path with no asked questions. The brother stepped down from his seat on the wain and knelt next to the Hound. "He needs a maester," Anya said.

"How long have you been with him?" The brother asked, pushing the hood of his robes down to reveal a wrinkled, but kindly face, with greying hair. He laid his hand on the Hound's shoulder and briefly glanced down at his broken leg.

"Two days," Anya sighed, it had felt like longer, it felt like an eternity. "He wakes sometimes, just long enough to drink."

The man stood with a grunt. "He'll be too heavy for the both of us with that armor," the brother replied. Anya nodded and began worry with the armor while he moved the bags of grain and bales of straw around to make room for the two of them in the wagon.

She undid the buckles on the spaulder that remained and the lames and lastly the rerebrace before she came to the brigandine shirt and hauberk. He stirred but never woke. The odd placement of his shoulder made pulling the armored shirt overhead impossible, she slipped the blade of her dagger at the neck of the studded leather and sliced it from his torso. With the kindly traveler's help, the Hound was shed of armor except for the plated boots.

"Hold his leg." The sight of his mangled leg made her sick. She braced the Hound's broken leg while the brother lifted him into the bed of straw. Anya let her shoulders fall in relief and clambered into the wagon as well after helping the brother bridle Stranger next to his pale yellow mare.

They passed through the rugged terrain of the Vale and onward towards the Riverlands. "Brother Ray," he finally said while looking over his shoulder at the lovely lady who watched over her wounded hound with diligence.

"Anya Whent," she replied without thought or hesitation.

"Lie down, rest. We're just a little over a day's ride from the Quiet Isle." She shuffled the straw around and pulled free a woolen blanket that would serve as a pillow. With a timidness of what might have been a virgin, Anya brushed her hand against the back of Sandor's and carefully slipped her fingers through his. Maybe it was the longing hope in her heart or the grief that plagued her mind, but she swore she felt his hand tighten around hers, and the creaking of the wheels and jarring of the cart was as sweet as any lullaby.

-

"You know where the heart is?" He asked, gasping for breaths that would not easily come. Sandor pressed his dagger into Anya's hand but she shook her head and tossed it far away.

"I won't do it," she bit back, stubborn as ever. He had already asked her to kill him and be done with it, this made the third time.

"Then fuck off and leave me to die," he growled, looking anywhere else but her. He wanted to say even more hateful things to her, to make her leave him, the words would not come.

Anya shook her head again, "I won't do that either." She pressed a wet cloth against his forehead and reached behind her for a wineskin. He drank from it greedily and tossed it aside when it was emptied. "Stubborn," he muttered, trying to pull his gaze away from her, even if it would be a pleasant image to die with.

"That makes two of us," Anya laughed, dumping a portion of strong liquor over the worst of the wound. He hissed and cursed both the gods and her. Sandor fisted his hand into the front of her tunic and hauled her down so quickly she hardly responded when his lips moved against hers, rough, scarred, and harsh.

The breath had left from her lungs, "I -I lov- Sandor?" Before her eyes, his face morphed into another and the dark grey eyes of a Stark stared back at her. "Ned?" Anya looked around as if she had gone mad, but her brother was there, smiling.

She lurched forward and wrapped her arms around him and felt solace wash over her body and mind. He was there, he was real, he was _alive_. Yet despite the familiar comfort, something warm and sticky soaked the front of her threadbare tunic. Afraid, she pulled back from Ned and saw it was blood. Bile rose in her throat. Hesitant she glanced back up at her brother. He stood headless for only a moment before crumbling to the ground.

Her scream permeated the air as she beheld her brother's severed head. "Sweet sister?" Anya knew that voice and even so, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to will herself to wake. It did not work, she was trapped.

"Benjen?" She asked, too afraid to be relieved. The ranger knelt and alas she opened her eyes to see the long, solemn face of Benjen Stark, with piercing blue eyes that were brighter than she remembered. He reached out for her hands. Anya looked down and placed both hers within his, but his touch was cold, bitterly cold. Slowly she watched the warmth of his skin fade into a harsh pallor that shifted to a pale blue. Frost covered her hands and crept up past her wrists and forearms.

When she looked up at him, his face was half dead, not yet having rotted and his eyes were the vivid color of what Old Nan used to call wights. "Benjen! You're hurting me." He did not relinquish his grip and she was powerless against him. Stop!" She cried and the pain stopped though the cold did not leave.

Anya stood in the snowy night and looked around at the bleak fortification that was Castle Black. Somewhere in the night, a wolf howled. "Jon!" He was kneeling in the snow. She ran toward him, smiling at this cruel dream; she was naught even three feet from him when he collapsed backward in the snow. And slowly it began to turn red. "Jon!" Something was pulling her back. "Jon!"

Anya's lungs filled with a painful rush of air as she woke. Her hands shook as she sat up, trying to compose herself but the tears came and it was nigh impossible to stop the pain and sorrow. Slowly she tried to piece together the dream yet it made no sense to her muddled and tired mind.

There was only a single window in which light entered the stone room. Anya woke with a start and looked around at her bleak and barren surroundings. It took several long moments to remember what had happened. She was in the Bay of Crabs, on the Quiet Isle, but then panic seized her heart and she leaped up from the pallet bed.

The halls were empty and undecorated asides from the open windows that allowed ivy and moss to grow on the windowsill. Her footsteps echoed in the silence. She wished to have the weight of her sword as a comfort but they had taken it, along with her bow.

At the end of one of the halls stood two brothers clothed in brown robes, leather sandals, and a leather belt. She would have paid them no mind if not the single groan of undignified pain that came from behind the doors which they were guarding. She near broke into a sprint, but the two men stepped in her path. "I'm sorry, Lady Anya, but you are not allowed within the healing rooms."

Fury and desolation swelled within her chest, battling for dominance. "Why?" she asked, out of breath in a broken voice, "I've cleaned his wounds for two days now and they can't allow me to help?" One of the brothers flinched at her tone, yet the other, and more elder stood steadfast and unbothered.

"You should rest," he said in a monotone voice. "On the east side of the isle are women's cottages and a spring to bathe in."

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I'm not leaving him," she gritted out with furrowed brows and flaring nostrils.

"I'm afraid you must for the time being," the elder of the two spoke, there was no sympathy to be found in his voice, only duty. Anya reached down, pulling a slim knife from her worn boot, "Which one of you will be the one to keep me out then?" She asked. The two holy men paled and stepped back from the armed woman.

"Please, Lady Anya, this is not a place of violence." She almost snorted at those words, somehow violence existed everywhere, even on this small little island in the middle of a bay that claimed to be peaceful. Violence followed both her and the Hound, it was only a matter of time before it found these people as well.

"Let me pass and there will be no violence." Her grip on the small blade was white knuckled.

Brother Ray exited the infirmary with his shirt stained with blood. He looked between the two brothers and motioned for Anya to come, she lowered the blade in weary defeat.

His leg had been bound and placed in a wooden stint. The entity of his torso was wrapped in thick linen bandages. A brother had knelt down at his right side, carefully cleaning and stitching the gashes in his palm closed in silent concentration. "I think he may yet survive this," Ray said with the beginnings of a smile.

Anya tried to hide the rush of relief that came over her, it made her worry seem pointless. "He's too stubborn to die," Anya replied, resisting the urge to laugh that had come over her.

Brother Ray chuckled, "Then it seems he's found the secret to living forever." He looked over at the fair lady of an extinct house and found himself wondering how a Hound and a Bat had ever become acquainted with each other. "Brother Narbert said you did well tending to his wounds, they should not rankle."

There was little else to be done, for some time she sat huddled in one of the corners of the room watching and waiting for him to wake but he never did. As midday came and passed, another brother entered the infirmary, though there was something notable different about him. "Lady Anya."

She looked at him and the hand that was outstretched toward her. He explained his position on the isle. He was their protector, a former knight himself, but he would not say what house he had sworn his allegiance to. After forsaking violence and turning to the Light of the Seven, he was termed the Elder Brother of the island's septry.

"He wanted me to kill him," Anya admitted. She wondered if he would hate her for not doing it.

"Death is the end of every worldly pain," the Elder Brother replied, turning to face the bay as the tide was beginning to come in for the last time that day. "Where will you go?" He asked, somehow knowing that she would not stay.

Anya thought about Jon and the Wall, she wished to see him, she wished to know that he was well after the dream that had woken her. If something had happened to Jon, she would have blamed herself for not stopping him from leaving. It would be the same strange type of guilt that she felt about letting Benjen leave her. Then she thought of Sansa. Trapped inside the lion's den with no family and no one who cared. She was closer to King's Landing than the Wall and she needed to see that Sansa was safe after losing Arya. "South, my niece is in King's Landing. I need to get her out of that place."

The Elder Brother nodded and placed his hand on her shoulder, gently, "Very well, but stay for the night, child. You'll have a proper meal and we'll pack a bag for the road."

She bit the inside of her cheek and nodded, "Thank you."

They had provided her with a chestnut mare with white socks that had a temperament to rival Stranger's. Almond was her name. Anya stroked the beast's neck, it was time for her to be going while the tide was out. "You're troubled," Brother Ray noted as she tightened the straps and buckles of the small saddle.

"Matters of the heart," was all she said in reply.

A strange smile crossed over his aging features, "You don't want to leave him." She couldn't deny that all she could do was look over the muddy plain that separated the island from the mainland. It was littered with tidal pools that shown like silver coins in the midday sun, "but I have to."

"You'll find your way back," Ray noted. There was no uncertainty in that statement.

"May I see him once more before I go?" She asked and the brother nodded and led her from the stables to the infirmary. They said he had yet to wake from the dwale and treatment from the prior day.

Anya knelt beside the pallet of blankets and flattened pillows they had fashioned for him in the infirmary. She gingerly held onto one of his bandaged hands and leaned forward, her lips brushing against his forehead, he had never looked so peaceful in rest before. _I'll come back_ , she silently vowed. Anya held onto his hand for a moment longer. With no small amount of reluctance, she stood from his side and left. A moment later Sandor Clegane began to wake with the smell of roses lingering about him.


	34. Thirty-Two

She slept in the shadow of Harrenhal. Harrentown had been put to the torch, wood had burned to ash but the blackened stone remained. The dilapidated structure had once been an inn. Once she had known the innkeepers, he had been named Orik, his wife Katrina. They had taken given her a meal and a warm bed the night she had run off pretending to be a dragon that terrorized people in the night. That was over two decades past.

The stone was cold and Almond's saddle blanket was woven of thin linen, unfit for warmth. _The winter is cold_ , she told herself, _but I am colder_. When morning light broke through the crumbling walls and cast its pale warmth upon Anya's face, she rose and felt decades older than her age.

Dark clouds loomed overhead and instead of taking the Kingsroad, she veered off to the east and followed the desolate path that ran near the Antlers and through Duskendale. Passersby sometimes gave her a wary glance that made her question whether they knew her, but such worries seemed obscure. Regardless, Anya pulled the hood of her cloak up and strapped her sword to the horse's saddle. She rode with her hand resting over the hilt, never feeling at ease.

In a day she would ride through the Dragon Gate into the city of King's Landing, to do so without being rested was a death sentence. One the outskirts of Duskendale was a tavern. A room for the night was cheap, the mead cheaper. Anya recalled the layout of the Red Keep, the tunnels that lead from the city into the castle, where the guards had primarily been stationed, and the secret passages within the Keep, one of which led into the chambers that Sansa occupied. She could only pray that her niece was still there.

Before the sunset, she found a large oak tree and took a place beneath it, laying out her sword, dagger, and whetstone. If the gods were merciful then mayhap no one would need to die, but by now she had learned that the gods above all, loved the bloodshed. In cold, methodical strokes she ran the small piece of stone down the edge of the blades and told herself that soon it would be over. She would take Sansa with her to the Quiet Isle with enough silver and gold to buy three spots on the next ship across the Narrow Sea.

The next day came quickly before dawn had even come Anya was on the road again. Rain had rounded down on her head and face for over an hour, the road had turned into a sloppy mess but she would not stop. Not when she was this close.

It was by luck alone that she recognized him outside of the castle of House Stokeworth. For once the gods had answered her prayers. The prince charming façade that he wore so well and arrogantly before the war had all but vanished, along with his right hand. He traveled with no formal party, only another lone rider. Anya pressed her heels into Almond's sides and raced to meet them on the road.

"Kingslayer!" She shouted. Jaime Lannister turned and an unexpected pallor washed over him as the lady rider flung back the dark hood to reveal honey hair and the cold, grey eyes of a Stark. It was the sellsword Bronn who accompanied him, his hand hovered over a throwing knife strapped to his belt. Jaime held up his golden hand and the sellsword sat back in his saddle, a wary expression mixed with disbelief on his face. The oathbreaker dismounted his white stallion and Anya did the same.

She stood before him with eyes that could pierce a man more easily than Valyrian Steel. "Rumor has it that you're a dead woman, Anya Stark." For perhaps for only the second or third time in his life, Jaime Lannister felt a profound respect for this woman. She was a survivor.

Anya gritted her teeth together in an effort to forget what he had done to her family. How he attacked Ned in the streets and killed Jory. "Perhaps I am dead," there was no emotion in her voice, just cold determination. "I certainly feel it. Now tell me, where is Sansa?" Grief had given her a haunted, vulnerable look; if anything, it had only made her more beautiful since their last meeting in the gardens of the Red Keep.

"She has not been seen since Joffrey's death," he paused and saw the apprehension cross over her face. The crippled knight took a step closer, his voice dropping down to just above a whisper, "you must not be seen near the city either. Cersei will have your head!"

For a moment, Anya was taken aback by his concern for her wellbeing and she hated him even more. "At least I'd be next to my brother then," she snapped. Jaime Lannister had changed, and she could not say whether it was for the better or worse.

"Anya, listen to what I am telling you. Sansa is not within the city. The war is over, I have no reason to lie to you." Only a fool would have believed him. 

She laughed, "You're wrong Jaime." Almond nudged her shoulder and she took the mare's reins. The Kingslayer tilted his head in confusion. "The war's not over, it's only just begun." She turned back to him and spoke three words that send shivers coursing down his spine: "Winter is coming." Anya mounted the brown mare and turned her gaze over to Bronn, who seemed uninterested in the entire affair. "I hope you've paid him well, friendship means little to him."

Jaime furrowed his brows, "What are speaking of?"

She drew down the neck of her tunic and revealed the puckered scar that remained from the battle. "It was an arrow with blue fletching. Ask him what color arrows he shot in the Battle of Blackwater." Anya said nothing more and neither did Jaime Lannister. With a snap of the reins and a gentle nudge, she galloped off in the direction of King's Landing, not trusting a single word that had come from the Kingslayer's mouth.

At midday she had arrived at the cesspit of a capital, five miles away, the overbearing scent of sweat, smoke, and shit permeated the air. A cruel reminder of the events that occurred in the wretched city. She dared not return to any place that would recognize her face, instead, she turned to Coppersmith's Wynd and Reeking Lane. They did not know her, nor could they tell that she was a highborn lady. Anya spoke to several apprentices and smith's within the handful of hours that she roamed King's Landing.

All of them confirmed what Jaime had told her. Joffrey was dead, Tywin Lannister was dead, Sansa had disappeared seconds after the boy king fell to the ground choking and clawing at his throat. Suffocating at his own wedding. She almost laughed when that bit of information slipped out, it was a cruel irony that appealed to her black humor.

By sundown, she had left the city with a heavy heart and a deep sense of failure. And then she thought of Jon and knew that was where she had to go next. The Wall. If she road hard the journey could be made in just over a month. No doubt it would be long and hard, dangerous even, but with Sansa and Arya missing and no word on Bran or Rickon, it was the only place she had left to go.

Anya stopped for the night well away from the road. She unrolled a blanket and laid beneath an oak tree that was half dead from being struck by lightning. The limbs and leaves were good for kindling a small fire. Flames licked at the grass, singing each individual blade within a short proximity.

She stared hopelessly into the fire until a glint of gold caught the corner of her eye. A portion of the tree's trunk had been hollowed out, curious, Anya brushed away years of leaves and dirt that had accumulated to reveal the pommel of what looked to be a sword. She pulled out her own dagger and began to carve out the shape, the blade had been pushed into the ground and partially taken by the tree. Half the night must have passed before she wrenched both the sword and scabbard free.

Rubies encrusted a cross-guard and pommel of gold and bronze. The only weight must have come from the crystals as the blade was light in hand and perfectly balanced. As she held the sheathed blade it became clear that the grip had been fitted for a woman's hand. The Whent girl ripped the blade from the sheath and shifted it so the metal caught the firelight.

Dark veins rippled across the blade. Anya ran her thumb down the edge and startled when it bit into her skin with sickening ease. After what may have been hundreds of years in the weather it still was sharp. Her eyes widened _. Valyrian Steel_.

She placed the sword back in its sheath and turned back to the hollowed out tree, continuing with the excavation. There was nothing but dirt and leaves upon first glance but within the pile was a ring of silver. Anya poured water over the piece and washed away the dirt caked around the stone. It was the color of blood and shone like fire. The ruby was cradled within the grasp of dragon's talons. The design was familiar, like one she had seen in drawings and described in books. Anya dropped the ring when it dawned on her who it and the sword had once belonged to. _Visenya Targaryen_. 

-

Wolves were howling in the distance, their calls long and sorrowful, yearning for the full moon that loomed above. Anya called back and an array of creatures responded but only one wolf returned the call. She stoked the fire one last time before leaning against the thick trunk of an elm tree and waited for sleep to come. It was a long way to the Wall and she had to make haste to avoid the coming winter.

Anya woke in the early hours of the morning, shivering, yet still, the heap of coals let off ample warmth. Low bushes rustled but there was no wind. She reached for her sword and began to pull it from its sheath when the creature bounded out, teeth bared and snarling, snapping. It was a wolf, but larger than any of those south of the wall and instantly she _knew_. 

"Nymeria," Anya spoke softly and slowly took her hand away from the sword hilt. The direwolf tilted her head at the name. It was unmistakably her, with dark golden eyes and grey fur. She sniffed Anya's outstretched hand and the pack of belongings at her side as if searching for someone else. Searching for a wild little girl with brown hair that enjoyed fighting more than sewing. "She's not here, Nymeria," Anya stroked the coarse fur of the wolf's flank, "I don't know where she is." 

The direwolf whimpered and soon her pack was coming from the wood, pups and adults alike though none could rival her size. "I know she misses you, though." Nymeria circled the patch of barren earth next to Anya and laid down, her large head resting on Anya's thigh. The other wolves laid around the tree in a large circle with unquestioning loyalty to their leader, not even bothering with Almond.

A world away a nameless girl woke from another wolf dream but this time the taste of blood didn't linger in her mouth nor did the throes of her victims linger, there was something salty on her tongue and it took several moments before she rubbed her eyes. The girl was crying.


	35. Thirty-Three

The first thing Sandor Clegane noted was that he lay on the floor in a stone room. Vials of numerous shapes and sizes lined the walls on split wood shelves and small pots of flowers and herbs had been dotted along a table before a wide window. The second thing was the stiffness in his leg and the aching pain in his shoulder. He pushed himself up, or at least tried to, his shoulder gave and he hit the piles of blankets and linens that surrounded him.

"The Hound lives," Brother Ray looked down at the disoriented man with a bemused smile. There were over a dozen times that he thought the Hound would have died yet he had shown immeasurable perseverance to live.

Sandor looked around at the near barren room, "The fuck am I?" His voice was hoarse from disuse and had an even harsher rasp from the dryness of his throat.

"The Quiet Isle," Ray responded, moving over to fetch a cup of water that had been pulled up from the well. The holy man pressed the cup into the Hound's hand and saw the confusion on his scarred face, "in the Bay of Crabs."

And then he remembered her and how briefly he had remembered smelling the sweet scent of roses. "Where is she?" They had been in one another's company now for two years, he was not keen on imagining what his days would come to be like in her absence. He wished he could hate her but that was impossible.

Brother Ray knelt, a fond little smile coming to his withering lips at the thought of Anya Whent. A stubborn little rose with too many thorns to count. "She wished to return to King's Landing to look for her kin."

The Hound tried to stand again. Pain spread through his leg but he tried his damnedest to push through it. "Just where do you think you're going?" Ray asked, almost laughing.

"King's Landing," he rasped.

The old septon shook his head, "Not with that leg, you wouldn't make it off the island." Sandor Clegane didn't listen and somehow he managed to get to his feet. His balance lasted all of a few seconds before the splinted leg gave beneath his weight. "What'd I tell you?" Ray scolded as he stood from a wooden stool. The Hound grumbled and took the milk of the poppy that had been offered and laid back on the pallet.

The elder man returned to his seat and ran his wrinkled fingers across the seven pointed star that represented the Faith of the Seven. "You can stay here, Sandor Clegane. There's always work to be done in the name of the Seven. You'll have food, shelter, maybe even a bit of coin and wine but first, you must heal and to do that you must rest."

He huffed in response, never having been one to sit idle. Brother Ray opened up the book of scripture that was propped up on the leg of the stool. For a few moments, Sandor watched him almost suspiciously, only after the elder man had turned several pages did he say anything. "Why'd you let her go back to that shithole of a city?"

Ray shrugged. "It was not my place to deny her," there was an unspoken degree of admiration in the man's voice. In their short time of knowing one another, there was no denying that Anya Whent was strong. "Don't fret though," he said, and Sandor furrowed his brows at the sudden statement, "I believe you will see her again. But the true question is, what do you believe?"

The Hound's laughter was rough and mocking, "If I were her I wouldn't come back for someone like me." No, he did not expect the little rose to come back, not after the hateful things he had said and done since Joffrey snipped her brother's neck on the stairs of Baelor, not after the heated arguments they had on the road.

Now it was Ray's turn to laugh, the old septon had a laugh that began deep in his belly and sounded nothing short of genuine. "You've spent all this time with her and yet you still don't see." Sandor glared up at the man. "Some love comes like the wind off the sea, while others grow slowly from the seeds of friendship and kindness."

Brother Ray stood from his small wooden seat with the large scripture book under his arm. "The gods have given you a remarkable woman, it would do you well to remember that." He left the wounded Hound with those words and the bitter taste of hope on his tongue.

Grumbling, Sandor Clegane pulled at the strings of his left vambrace and once loose enough, a sash of pale green ribbon fell out onto his chest. He looked at it with a certain amount of complacency, most of the small pearl beads had been lost since the tournament, but the small pink roses that had been embroidered remained _. Just accept the damn thing_ , she had told him and he did.

-

When the morning came, Anya was alone. Nymeria and her pack had gone, though come the night the direwolf had returned and took her place at Anya's side. And so that became routine for a week, by day she would travel along the road and at night, well off of the beaten track, she would unpack her bedroll and await the arrival of the wolves.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention, the chill of the night air sent chills coursing down her spine. Nearby a branch snapped and a shadow lurked. Anya stood and withdrew her sword, carefully moving around the small fire. At first, she believed it to be Nymeria, but now that she had passed through the Riverlands the direwolf had not followed her. "Who goes there?!" she called, but the darkness said nothing in return.

A shadow of a man emerged from the dense forest, "Come any closer and I'll open you from your belly to your brain." The man unbuckled his sword belt and threw it aside and carefully sat down his bow and quiver.

He came forward with his hands raised. "I swear on my life I do not mean you harm." He wore black boiled leather that matched the pitch color of his hair. The orange glow of the fire painted dark shadows on his face. Anya had yet to back down, the ripples in the Valyrian Steel shone and seemed to slither over the blade. "The fire," the stranger explained, "this wood is infamous for dangerous folk now, it will draw them." He lowered his head in a courteous manner, "Erac, m'lady."

Anya moved around the fire and lowered her sword just a fraction of an inch. He did not startle, nor was there anything about his expression that spoke of ill-intentions. "There are barrows near," he explained and she knew he was speaking truthfully, "if you will brave them for shelter and food." Her stomach grumbled at the mention and Erac grinned.

"Swear that I can trust you," she demanded, "But know my promise stands true if I think you threaten me."

The man nodded and knelt before her. "I swear on my life and honor that I will do you no harm, my lady." Pleased with the oath, Anya sheathed her blade and bid him rise. He had features that could have belonged to nobility and an air about him that said he was from the North. She saddled Almond and emptied the contents of her wineskin over the fire.

Erac took the reins of the dark brown horse and helped Anya mount out of chivalry more so than anything else. He led them through the thick brush and into the open landscape that was littered with raised mounds of earth that housed the tombs of the First Men. Some of them barrows had been flattened, others had been raided for the treasures that laid within and others were left undisturbed for the terrible runes that had been carved into the stone and wood.

Almond pulled back against the man when he tried to lead her into one of the hollow barrows but finally relented when he pulled an apple from the pocket of his worn cloak.

Anya slipped from the saddle and ran her hands along the moist walls. It was strange to be standing within such a sacred place. Erac made a small fire sank onto the earthen floor next to Anya. He pulled out a wineskin, taking a long swallow of a dark red wine before passing it to Anya.

She drank heartily for a few seconds and relented the skin back to its owner. She could feel his gaze burning into her, unsettling and intense. "It is an honor to meet you, Anya Stark." Her head snapped in his direction at the mention of her own name.

"You know me?" She asked, a mixture of emotion in the simple question. There was shock, fear, and hope.

He nodded with a certain degree of solemnness that made Anya's heart twist, "I gazed upon you at Winterfell once, some time ago at a summer feast." That had been a lifetime ago, King's Landing had been a lifetime ago. Anya looked down at her dirtied hands and tried to remember the summer feasts that had been thrown in her time at Winterfell.

"I do not recall you," she admitted.

Erac only smiled and to see such a sight made Anya's heart leap, she had been surrounded by despair for so long. It reminded her of Jory, of Benjen, and suddenly it felt like she was suffocating. "As is to be expected. Highborn ladies seldom remember serving and kitchen boys," he responded, the light of the fire caught a silvery scar that ran down his cheek.

"I am of House Cleaber. Once we were sworn to the Reeds and now," he paused and the took another long drink of the wine, "now there is only me." A deep understanding welled within Anya's gut. He reached out and took her hand. The coolness of his touch startled her. "You'll be safe here. I swear it. Rest, Lady Stark." And for some foolish reason, she believed him.

Anya woke in the early hours of the morning to Erac adding twigs and split logs to the fire. "Sorry," he murmured upon realizing that she had woke at his doing. She bit down on her bottom lip and sat up, bringing the coarse woolen blanket up around her arms. Her hair was mussed by restless sleep, the thin tunic on her back hung off of her shoulder.

A shiver ran down her spine at the chill that had come in the night and was amplified when Erac sat next to her and gently touched her cheek. Like his, there was a silvery colored scar that spanned from beneath her eye to her jaw. A permanent reminder of the bread riots that had broken out in the streets. "How long has it been?" He asked.

"What do you mean?" Anya countered, despite being able to see the darkness in his eyes and the shift in his manners.

"Since someone has taken care of you." Her breathing hitched, a fierce blush came to her cheeks. She couldn't remember, in truth, and heat shouldn't have rushed to her gut at the thought.

He laid his hand on her cheek and she cursed herself for leaning into the touch. Something brushed over her lips and it took a moment before she realized that it was Erac's trembling lips against her own and for the briefest of moment's she leaned into the kiss, into him. "You shouldn't do that," Anya breathed when they broke apart. There was no jest in her voice.

Erac found it almost amusing. "Why?" He inquired with a raised brow, his rough hand still caressing her cheek. "I'm cursed." She responded, or so she thought, _Harrenhal's curse runs in my blood_. It seemed reasonable enough.

The Northerner shook his head, "I don't fear death, Lady Stark." _Nor do I_. Perhaps, for only this night, she could live and not drown in the sorrows and horrors of reality. They would surely come back to her at dawn.

Once the dawn had come, Erac woke Anya, though not without hesitance. He left her to dress and slung Almond's saddle over his shoulder. After a small breakfast on winterberries, apples, and brown bread they set off back into the open Northern plains.

Barrowton had passed by on the road and as it did Erac amused her with talk of the stories his mother had told him as a child, some were about the First Men, others of the Andals, and even a few about giants and White Walkers. Though as the late hours of the afternoon came, her companion halted. "You know the paths from here?"

She nodded and tightened her grip on the leather reigns. "Should you ever need my sword it is yours to command, my allegiance lies with House Stark, with you." _I'm not a Stark_ , she wanted to tell him, nonetheless, Anya smiled down at him and pressed her heels into Almond's sides and like the wind, she flew North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Richard Armitage (my husband) as Erac Cleaber! (He has the Guy of Gisborne look, btw).


	36. Thirty-Four

The Kingsroad wasn't safe, the woods weren't safe, nowhere was safe. She rode north but never traveled on the road unless it was to cross rivers and streams. Anya knew it was a long way to the Wall from King's Landing but the distance and danger could not dissuade her from going north. _I have to go north, I have to_.

There was a bow on her back with a quiver of poorly constructed arrows at her side, the ancient sword Dark Sister was secured on the saddle. Her cloak was patched and tattered at the hem, her clothes too thin for braving the cold of the north, yet she persevered. She was raised in the cold of the north, its bite was familiar and welcomed, the chill that settled into her bones was empowering.

Anya came upon accustomed paths in the dense and snowy wood. She was passing through the Wolfswood. For this one time, she braved the risk of being spotted and came to the edge of the forest. Winterfell was on the horizon and it called her home, but for her home was not a place, it was the people she knew and loved.

Even if Winterfell was a home, now it bore the banners of the traitor Boltons. The Whent girl drove the heels of her boots into the sides of Almond and fled from the sight of the castle.

Only after Winterfell was well past her did she return to the Kingsroad, it would take her to Castle Black and to Jon. Anya stopped just twice on the path to the Wall, once to sleep and let Almond rest, the second time near Mole's Town was for a hot meal and lumpy bed. Within the month, she was deep in the Gift and snow had begun to fall in feathery flakes.

Exhausted, she could not stop the smile that came to stretch across her face when the monstrous Wall came into view on the horizon, looming overhead. A wonder of ice and rock that stood over seven hundred feet tall in some places and split the continent in two. Anya urged her mount forward and could feel the anticipation building within her gut.

Castle Black was no true castle, not even a fortress really, its only defense was the Wall and short wooden and stone parapet that surrounded the yard. They couldn't precisely remember that last time she had seen the ancient seat of the Night's Watch. It had been as a child with Lord Rickard. She arrived at the edge of dusk and called up to the rampart.

"What business do you have here, woman?" Maybe if she wasn't covered in filth and dressed like a proper lady, Dolorous Edd would have recognized her, but she looked a mess, she was sure of that.

Almond stamped around restlessly after the slow ride through the woods to Castle Black, "I need to speak to Jon so openly the bloody gate Edd." The brother of the Night's Watch flushed and waved to two others who stood on the ramparts as well.

Chains rattled and hinges creaked. The gate opened just wide enough for her horse to make passage. Edd had come down and greeted her, by the book this time, as he recognized her to be the fair sister of Benjen Stark. She hadn't expected to be so glad to see Eddison Tollet's grim face.

"Sam!" He called, and a stout brother came stumbling forward, but when he saw Anya he froze in his tracks. Sam knew who she was at first sight. There was no mistaking that she was the aunt Jon had spoken so fondly of on repeated occasions. "Take her to the lord commander," Dolorous Edd had told him.

"He talks about you a lot, you know," Sam told her, slightly out of breath from his excitement and Anya smiled as they crossed the yard.

Jon exited the common hall into the falling snow. Anya stopped when she saw him, her breath caught in her throat. He scanned over the courtyard, looking at the brothers who stood in training in particular. He had missed her standing there, her clothes blended into the background of the garrison too well. It took only a second afterward for him to notice the honey hair that stood out against the blacks and greys of Castle Black, though.

He forewent stairs and jumped from the platform, taking large hastened strides until he stood before his aunt. In silence, Anya touched his cheek. He had a beard now, and scars that weren't there when he had left from Winterfell. When she smiled, so did Jon. Anya refused to cry when she took him into her arms. She hadn't truly realized how much she missed him until this moment. It was like a homecoming to Anya, who had no home to which she could ever return.

No one spoke objections when they left to speak in private. Jon pushed open the splintering wooden door to his quarters in the King's Tower. Once the door closed behind the pair Anya was almost in tears _. We all should have stayed at Winterfell_. "The capital sent word out that you were dead," Jon admitted, the emotion in his voice only thinly veiled.

"I'm sure that is what the Lannister's wish for," Anya forced herself to laugh, especially as she remembered how sincere Jaime Lannister's reaction had been to seeing her alive, "however, as you can see, I am not dead."

"I thought I'd never see you again," Jon spoke with a sad sort of laugh. It took only a few more questions until he brought up Arya and Sansa and with a heavy heart, she told him that they were lost, alone somewhere in the cruel world. Yet for all the despair and blame that had been in her voice, Jon had told her that they would be all right, they were Starks, after all.

It had grown dark already and the snow was still falling. "You must be hungry." Anya nodded and stood, pulling her worn cloak about her shoulders, she ventured into the night with Jon.

"Ghost!" The white direwolf padded up to Anya and nudged her hand expectantly. Jon had the beginnings of a smile as she knelt in the snow and scratched at the wolf's neck and behind his ears. Seeing him made her remember Lady and how Sansa cried on the Kingsroad, and Grey Wind who had been howling and caged when the Frey's put bolts in him. Ghost pressed his cold muzzle against Anya's cheek, silent as ever and far more perceptive than any animal had the right to be. _I saw your sister, she has a whole pack of wolves at her command_.

They supped together in the common hall after all the brothers had gone on meat stew and a brown roll with mulled cider. "Do you remember the tale of Rhaegar's rubies?" She asked, suddenly and with no preamble.

Jon set down his cup and nodded, "The seven that were lost in the Trident." She had told him and Robb that story sometimes, yet in her renditions, Robert was not a hero, nor was Rheagar the villain. Anya dug around in her pack, pulled out a single red glittering stone that was the size of a pebble and passed it to Jon, they belonged to your father, she wanted to say but the words were stuck in her throat. _He's my boy_.

"I found it when I was traveling off the road. It had washed up on the muddy banks," she explained as Jon rolled the blood red ruby between his thumb and forefinger, flexing the stiff tendons of his burned hand. He slid the stone across the table and Anya stuck it back into one of the pockets sewn inside her cloak.

"Has there been word on Benjen?" Anya finally dared to ask, she refused to believe that he was dead, despite the dreams and the letter that Jeor Mormont had sent to the King's Landing.

The lord commander shook his head, "No." Jon couldn't quite believe his uncle was dead either, but that brought him to another subject matter that was important. "I'll be going beyond the wall in a few days' time," he began, gauging Anya's reaction, "To Hardhome, I plan to allow the Wildlings to settle in the Gift."

It took a moment for her to think on what he had just said, the only thing that truly stuck with her wasn't that he was going north of the Wall, but the dangerous folk that would return with him. "Wildlings?" Anya asked with no small amount of disbelief.

"I've spent time with them," he explained and suddenly she understood, or at least she thought she did, "I-," Anya smiled, knowing well that tone of voice and the glint that was in his dark eyes. "You've found love."

Jon nodded and looked down at his scarred hand. "And lost it already. Her name was Ygritte," his lips twisted into a wry smile as he thought about the red-headed wildling, "you would have liked her." He added after a moment. Anya reached across the table and grasped Jon's hands, squeezing them ever so slightly. The quiet solace was gone within minutes as a hulking figure entered the common hall with hair redder than Sansa's. "Snow!" The man called and immediately Jon stood and faced the wildling leader.

"Tormund," he greeted.

"All the supplies are ready," Tormund stated, but his gaze was drawn around the Crow to the woman who sat with wide eyes, a cup of steaming cider in her hand. "Is this the fierce she-wolf you've told us about?"

Anya smiled and stood, "I see I have quite the reputation in these parts." Jon flushed.

"This is my aunt, Anya Stark," he spoke and the gruff wildling looked down his nose at the small lady. "This is Tormund Giantsbane." For the rest of the night, until the hour grew indecent, she, Jon, and Tormund drank in the hall. Sam had come stumbling in at one point with a wildling woman, Gilly was her name. It was an odd grouping but stories were shared and despite the danger that lurked over the land it felt like she had been reunited with a strange family, only if for the night.

-

In two days' time Anya decided it was time to take her leave of the Wall, "They may not be the best fit but they will keep you warm," Jon pressed a woolen tunic into his aunt's arms along with a leather jerkin and one of the shortest pair of britches they could find. He went to digging around in the stack of spare cloaks while Anya changed into the fresh clothes. The pants were a little big in the waist and had to be kept up with a soft leather strip and the jerkin hung down to her knees but for some reason, she thought it was fitting.

Jon presented a cloak to Anya, but not just any cloak. It was black, of course, and trimmed in the fur from of silver wolf. The dark leather strap had the imprint of House Stark, a direwolf. Ned had worn a cloak like that, but this wasn't Ned's, "This was Benjen's," she breathed and Jon nodded.

"You should have it," Jon said, knowing well that Benjen had loved his sister above all else. Anya hadn't moved, she only stared down at the cloak that had been draped across her arms like it was the corpse of her brother. Jon stepped forward and took the cloak, draping it around his aunt's shoulders. It was too long but that didn't matter.

Sam had packed a bag of food with salted pork, some apples, hard bread, and cheese. It would last her until she had passed the borders of the North to stop again where there was less chance of people recognizing her. Edd had saddled Almond, tying off the saddle bag that held the few belongings she had and brought the mare out into the courtyard. Jon and Anya exited the armory into silence. Most of the Night's Watch had gathered.

"Take care of yourself," Anya pressed the ruby into Jon's gloved hand and took his face into her cold hands to kiss his forehead. At one point in his youth, Jon would have scoffed and shied away from the motherly affection, but now after all the things he had seen and done it was a welcomed change.

He cast a quick glance down at the red stone but when he looked at his aunt's expression he knew better than to give it back. "When will I see you again?"

"Soon, I promise. Stay safe, Jon, I mean it," the sternness of her voice reminded him of his father. Stern and solemn. Jon nodded and waved to those on the ramparts to open the gate. Anya gripped the horn of Almond's saddle and pulled herself up onto the horse. She cast one last look at Jon and smiled, "I'm proud of the man you've become, your father would be too _._ " _Ned and_ _Rhaegar, both_. With a gentle nudge, Almond trotted forward and once more she was on the perilous road that would take her back to where she had left her heart.


	37. Thirty-Five

Despite the changing weather, the Riverlands remained green and fertile in the areas that had not been ravaged by the war. The borders of the North had come too soon, but the safety of leaving the region where Starks had been hunted could not come soon enough. In the town of Fairmarket, she stopped for the night, desperate for a hot meal and roof as the rain had not stopped for two days.

At the first light of dawn, she had saddled Almond and set out under a clear sky.

Anya heard the sound of another set of horse hooves beating on the dirt road and laid her hand over the hilt of Dark Sister. A black horse and rider appeared at her side before she could speak the stranger had already done so. "Dangerous times for a woman to be traveling alone."

"I can manage on my own," Anya retorted, easing Almond into a faster trot, but her new companion kept up. He had deep brown hair, dark eyes, and a crooked smile adorned with a short unkempt beard. His armor was polished though she could not tell what or if he wore a sigil.

"Where are you going, my lady?" He asked.

Anya glanced at him for a moment and sighed, "The Quiet Isle."

"That's the way I'm going as well, Maidenpool for myself, though, surely you would not reject company." He seemed sincere enough. The Whent girl could tell by his manner of speech and attire that he was no beggar, but a proper gentleman. No doubt, this man was a knight, "And who are you, good ser?"

"Hyle Hunt," he smiled. She knew House Hunt, they called the Reach home and were sworn to House Tarly. Anya opened her mouth to state her name, perhaps a peasant name and house that would not be recognized but she was not given the chance. "And you are Anya Stark." She nodded, keeping her gaze on the road ahead. "May I inquire why you seek the Quiet Isle." It was not common for women to frequent the island.

"I made a promise to someone there," a brief smile came upon her lips as she thought of him, "I will not break my word."

Hyle Hunt smiled as well, seeing that she lived up to the Stark name, just as her brother had. "Honorable," he remarked, "Rumor has it that those brothers have a Hound now." Anya laughed. The holy men of the Quiet Isle did, indeed, have a Hound now.

He was decent company, quick to crack a joke and quicker to draw his sword at any sound or movement he deemed strange. They had traveled together for several days now, each one seeming longer than the last. Hyle had told her it was because she was closer now, it always seemed to take longer when you were close. On the sixth day of their travels, they came to the edge of the Bay of Crabs, a league from the path she had taken to leave the isle.

"Thank you for your company," Anya remarked, not having forgotten her courtesies or the expectations that came with a woman of her status.

Ser Hyle Hunt gave a slight nod, "A pleasure, my lady." He turned on his mount to face the forested path that led back to one of the main roads. "Perhaps the gods will allow us to cross paths once more, Lady Anya." He smiled and was trotting off, red cape floating out behind him.

The path back to the Quiet Isle was not one she would have thought to be on again, but in truth, there was nowhere else for her to go. She did not belong at the Wall even if Jon would have let her stay and Sansa, her poor little bird, had been lost with no word on her whereabouts since her presumed part in Joffrey's death. And then there was Arya, a wild young wolf alone in the world. Anya went to the one place she would be guaranteed a roof and a good meal, if only for a little while.

She waited for the tide to recede and trekked across the muddy tidal flat, losing her boot twice along the way but by the early afternoon, she had come onto the shore with Almond behind her just as the tide came back in. An old brother greeted her with a fond smile. "The little rose has returned."

A tinge of color rushed up to Anya's cheeks, "You must know Sandor."

"Aye, I do. If you're looking for him he's with Brother Ray helping a nearby village," the brother watched in dismay as her expression fell. "However, they will be back by sundown," he amended.

Anya walked with him along the shoreline. "How is he?" She inquired, wondering if it was really a question she wished to have answered.

"We all like to believe he is doing well," the brother began, "but there is still a great amount of hate within him."

She tried her damnedest not to laugh, hate was the thing that kept the Hound alive. "I doubt that'll go away anytime soon." A wry smile grew on her lips.

"He would wake calling your name before the fever released him. It took six brothers including myself to stop him from tearing away the bandages and stitches." Anya felt a lump in her throat. "Sandor Clegane is a man in torment, I pray that your presence will ease his suffering." With those words, the brother took his leave and returned to the sept.

"Lady Whent," a familiar voice greeted.

"Brother Ray," Anya bit down on her bottom lips, "Thank you." The old septon smiled and bid her not to weep. There was no use for her tears now.

He could see the question forming on the girl's lips and answered it before she even had a chance to speak. "He's in the stables." The stables of the Quiet Isle were small, with only enough room for four horses. It was also the armory of the small island. Despite being followers of the Seven even the holy island had a small store of hammers, axes, and even a handful of swords that had somehow managed to wash up on the rocky beaches. Anya left the light of day for the dusky and dusty stables.

She saw Stranger before him, the horse lifted its head from the hay trough and pricked its ears up but almost instantly they flopped back over. Stranger had tried to bite her the first time she came upon him, now he was as comfortable with her as he was his master.

Anya didn't know what to say, or what to do. He was standing before her own eyes, tall and strong once more. The man who had plagued her thoughts many a night after she had left him here. His back was to her as he put away axes, trowels, and hammers. "Sandor," his name came in a breathless undertone.

He stiffened, "Little rose." Sandor hung the last of the trowels and turned. She lowered her head, unable to look him in the eye due to the butterflies that were viciously flapping in her tummy. _Why must I feel like a lovesick child?_ The silence was unsettling, a calm before a storm, but she did not know what to say and he had never been a man of many words.

"The Elder Brother will allow my stay on the island for the night but it is to be in the women's cottages on the east side," it was the only thing she could manage to say at the moment.

"There aren't featherbeds," he remarked through the lump that formed in his throat. Never in his life would Sandor Clegane have imagined that the sight of a woman could make him feel so many things at once and leave him dumb and mute.

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes, "I can do without." They took the evening meal together with the other inhabitants of the island within the sept in near silence. Some of the brothers cast wary glances toward her as she would not depart with the sword at her hip, not even for supper. Yet they could not blame her for caution.

Afterward, the Elder Brother insisted that she take a loaf of bread and cheese for the night and morning with two skins filled with water and wine. The contents were placed in a woven basket. Meribald suggested that Sandor be the one to show Anya to the cottages for it could be a long walk for one to make alone in the night.

The cottage had a thatch roof and a mixture of mud and stone walls. It was comprised of a single room, at one end was a rough fireplace, at the other a pallet bed. The only other furnishings were a washbasin and small table on which a flagon of water sat.

Anya unknotted her sword belt and propped the blade against the wall, her worn boots were the next item to be removed. "Where did you go?" Sandor asked, a hidden anger surfacing in his voice but it faded when she turned back to him. The silver light of the moon cast deep shadows across her face that made her appear weary and broken.

"King's Landing and then to the Wall," she said while striking a small piece of metal against a slab of flint. A few sparks landed on the earthen floored and died, but with two more strikes, a small fire was roaring in the hearth. "Jon has his hands full and Sansa is somewhere but not there." Anya couldn't decide whether she was glad Sansa had escaped King's Landing or whether she should fear for her niece now more than ever.

"The little bird finally flew away," he mused and when stated like that Anya smiled. Somehow she had flown away.

Anya sat on the cool floor in front of the fire and let her eyes slip shut for a second. Sandor joined her and loosened the ties on his vambrace and a strip of sage colored cloth slipped out. She recognized it immediately despite the stains of dirt and blood. It had lost some of the pearls that had once been sewed into the shape of delicate little bats and wasn't quite the same color as it had once been. Anya took the favour and let the material slip between her fingers.

The initial tinge of color that had rushed to her cheeks had gone, now her eyes were wide in wonderment, "You kept it?"

He shrugged, "It's not like I got a trunk full of 'em." Even despite the months, they had been together on the road he had kept it hidden. Her heart began to feel odd as she realized he had taken it into the Battle of the Blackwater with him, and to what could have been his grave.

Anya handed the ribbon back to Sandor and he tucked it away into a small pocket that had been sewn on the inside of the brown leather jerkin. He stood to leave but Anya stood too and reached out for him, "Stay," she whispered. Sandor glanced down at where she had gripped his arm, it still seemed to startle him whenever their skin touched. "I know here that only man and wife may sleep under the same roof, but to hell with it all. Stay with me, Sandor." She didn't have to ask again or beg, he took a seat on the pallet and stripped off his boots.

Anya moved closer to him and like always she blamed the sudden impulse on the wine, only she had not drunk in weeks. She lifted her hand, shyly and raised it towards the scarred half of his face. _Gods, I missed your face like hell_. Sandor believed she had gone mad but he did not dare move in case it was a dream. If it was, then it was a good dream. "May I?" The murmured question was full of uncertainty.

"I don't see why you'd want to." She ignored him and laid her hand over the burnt flesh. His eyes slipped shut at the contact, it was the gentlest touch he had felt in years. Her fingertips danced across his scars, tracing over the division where melted skin met the half of his face unaffected by the flames. Suddenly her touch vanished and he opened his eyes to see her gnawing on her bottom lip as she always did when contemplating something.

"Fuck it," Anya muttered and then she was kissing him, burned lips and all and it was the sweetest thing she had ever experienced. He relented to the kiss and gave of himself what she required, his lips parting in symmetry with hers until the moment of realization collapsed.

She kissed him –long enough he could almost hear her thoughts. Long enough that he began to know her story, know what she had been through. Long enough that he began to realize her absence had left a cavity in his miserable life. It was the first time he had been kissed without having to pay some whore extra to do so and it made it that much sweeter. Anya gave willingly and he took, like a parched man in a desert would take water.

Sandor laid her back on the straw and rag stuffed mattress. As he had kissed her neck, she could not repress the feeling she was a lamb making time with a wolf. Each of his touches was near hesitant and gentle, for a man of his size it was unexpected but beneath the façade was a beast.

He must have thought she was made of glass but time had turned her from porcelain to steel. He tunneled his dirty hands through her hair and kissed her breathless. Her neck, her eyes, the corners of her mouth. He kissed her lips as if his life depended on it. He was at her neck again, this time she almost laughed at the feeling of his beard brushing over her skin, "Sandor," her voice sighing his name was something he never knew he wanted and it was all the encouragement he needed. She was pulling at his coarse tunic, dragging the material up his back until he obliged her.

He was muscled like an ox, broad and strong.

Beneath her wandering palms and fingertips, Anya could feel the numerous scars on his back and chest and those along his bare arms. She wanted to know the story behind each of them. Though she would not ask, not now, not when he was untying the leather jerkin and pulling the grey woolen tunic off.

Clarity rushed over him and he froze, she frowned as his conflicted eyes met her own. She kissed him softly and took his scarred and rough hand and brought it to rest upon her breast, "You won't hurt me," she was certain of it and he believed her, wholly. He folded her slowly, dignifiedly, and willfully in his arms.


	38. Thirty-Six

She laid on his chest with one of his arms draped across her back. He ran a finger down her cheek, following a new scar that wasn't there when he last saw her. "Didn't think I'd see your face again." Anya leaned into his touch with little reserve and this time he did not take his hand away.

"I couldn't stay away forever," she uttered, knowing that it was true, she could have stayed at the Wall longer, could have stayed with Erac Cleaber or Hyle Hunt longer but that was not where her heart yearned to be. It was here she wished to be, next to Sandor Clegane.

His lips twisted into a smile, she found it delightful to finally see him smile. "Roses," he began without preamble, her brows furrowed but then she understood, "you always smell like fucking roses. You've got plenty of thorns too." They both laughed. Anya bit her lip to stifle the swell of emotions that would come as tears. She kissed his chin and then his lips and laid her head on his chest. It was the closest she had felt to being at home and at ease since leaving Winterfell.

Dawn had come and gone. The early morning was upon them and soon someone would surely be sent to the cottage where they lay with tangled limbs. It would be frightfully embarrassing if one of the silent brothers were to see them in such a state of undress. "And this one?" She found another scar, barely visible beneath the hair on his chest. It was shaped like a waxing crescent moon and oddly pink compared to the color of his skin.

"First tournament," he muttered, still half caught in the haze that sleep had left.

The next scar was on the underside of his arm, "What about this one?" Her fingers danced over the jagged mark, but unlike some, it was smooth and almost blended into his skin.

"During the sack of King's Landing." She remembered Ned telling her about the sack of the capital by Tywin Lannister, that was Jaime earned the title kingslayer and though Robert Baratheon ascended to the throne, the Lannister's exerted their wealth and power over the seven realms.

Sandor laid his hand over the scar on her hip, it was a short curved line that began at the point of her hip and extended downward for two inches. "Theon fell into a river during a winter hunt, I went after him but got caught up on a rock before I could get out." She remembered the cold water and how it stabbed like a thousand knives, by the time they had reached Winterfell both she and Theon had been frozen stiff. Jon and Robb had found the way ice crystals formed in her hair particularly amusing.

"And these?" His thumbs brushed over her nipples and the small brown scars that ran vertically through each of them and her skin turned to gooseflesh. Anya held his hands against her breasts and closed her eyes, recounting how they came to be.

"I nursed Jon when he was a babe. The maester had to make an incision before any milk would come." He sat up and pulled her flush against him. Anya threaded her fingers through his hair and reveled in his strength and warmth. He pressed his face into the valley of her breasts and for a moment she swore she could feel his tender kisses. "Sandor," she gasped when he pushed her hips down on him. Wordlessly, he rocked her hips and she bit down on her bottom lip, "We should get dress -ah!"

Midday had just come when Anya and Sandor joined the brothers of the isle in the main sept. Brother Ray and Meribald had begun a travelers prayer while others readied baskets of bread, cheese, and salted meat. Anya watched and allowed the two septons to finish their prayer before inquiring where it was they were going. Ray told her that they would be leaving in the morn for a small village in the Riverlands to help them rebuild the sept that had burned down during the war.

"I'm coming as well," she said. Perhaps Meribald had opened his mouth to object to her company but with the dark glare that Sandor gave the holy man, he said nothing against it. Brother Ray wore a kindly smile, "Of course."

She knew that chopping and hauling trees would be left for the men, she could manage to help for a short while before her scarred shoulder would go stiff, but despite that, the Whent girl still felt the need to prove that she could be of use. "I can help the women prepare meals and set up camp."

Ray nodded, "It'll be appreciated."

Food stores had been packed for the road, as had tents. Hammers and axes were being loaded into one of the wagons. There were four in total, three filled with supplies and the last filled with those that wished to help. Anya and Sandor had managed a seat in the wain that carried tools. After having crossed the muddy tidal flats, he began to sharpen the axes with a small whetstone. By midday, it was as if all the axes had just come from the blacksmith's anvil.

Anya had packed her sword into the cart beneath a basket of cedar pegs and nails before the brothers could stop her, but now the sun caught the golden hilt and glimmered like a hidden treasure. "Where'd you get that fancy sword?" Sandor asked and she relented to handing him the sword and sheath, not caring what the holy men would say.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she smiled as he pulled the blade out, it looked small in his hand and fragile with its delicately crafted hilt. "I found it in the trunk of a tree." Anya still wasn't quite used to the way the light caught the ripples on the steel and made it seem as if they were moving like water or the wind.

"Targaryen blade," Sandor mused. It was the rubies and golden dragons molded into the cross guard that gave away the sword's heritage. "Dark Sister." She told him and sounded proud that somehow the ancient sword of Visenya Targaryen had come into her possession if by fate or accident.

He placed the tip of the blade in the sheath and pressed the rest in with a smooth motion. "Fitting," he remarked as he handed the sword back to Anya.

By sundown, they had arrived in the small village and were greeted with a warm meal of meat stew and brown bread, simple but filling. The village, if it could even be called so, was a cluster of wooden huts with thatch roofing that leaked during storms and wouldn't be able to keep out the cruel winds of winter. Most of the people were refugees from the war, or so Ray told her. Their possessions had been burned by the Lannisters or the Freys, maybe even the Starks by mischance.

It was on the outer edge of the forest where the sept was to be built and it was there that the tents had been pitched. To honor the Seven, unwed men and women did not share a tent, that left Anya lying next to one of the village's newest occupants. Lyra from High Heart, an herbal witch as some called her.

Anya rolled over and used a blanket to block out the sound of her snoring tentmate, only it didn't work in the slightest. She groaned and crawled out of the canvas tent, stumbling in the night.

Sandor cracked one of his eyes open to see the shadow her delicate figure, "You're not supposed to be here," he mumbled as she slipped through the flaps of his tent and tossed down her blanket.

"Never did like following rules," Anya whispered in turn and she swore that he smirked. "Lyra is snoring like a fucking hog," she added.

She spread out her blanket the best she could in the small and dark space and laid next to him with a content sigh. Anya was nearly asleep when she felt Sandor's arm slip around her shoulders and pull her into his side _. Damn the Seven_ , she thought, _loving someone and being with them isn't sinful._

-

The sept was little more than a pile of chopped trees by the time lunch was prepared and dished out on the seventh day. Anya was the last to prepare her bowl. Most of the men and women were bunched together in groups with lively conversations, but Sandor was not among them. Several groups motioned for her to join them but she politely declined and went to the lone figure who sat on a rock, his back turned to everyone else.

"They're afraid of you," Anya said as she sat next to him. "I'm used to it," he replied. She frowned, thinking it was the saddest thing she had ever heard someone say. The silence that fell over them was almost serene and welcomed among the chaos of falling trees and hammers ringing on wooden pegs.

Sighing, Anya passed him the remaining half of her chicken and rose with his empty bowl. She laid her hand on his shoulder for half a second and squeezed, he almost reached for her but stopped himself when another figure was approaching. "She loves you," Ray laughed when Anya was back with the other women. Sandor huffed in response and tore another piece of meat of the small wing. "And unless my eyes have been plucked out, you lover her too."

He couldn't deny it, he wouldn't deny it. It was true. Why else would he want to be in her presence, or see her laugh and smile? He would've taken her across the Narrow Sea after the Blackwater, he would've even taken the little she-wolf, Arya. Sandor did his best to give Ray a dangerous look, but the septon knew better. "Shut it old man." Ray handed him a mug of ale and left laughing like nothing was wrong in the world.

-

"Anya! Take this to Sandor." The old septon pressed a water-filled wineskin into her hand with uneasy urgency. She looked around and laid down the small knife she had been using to peel potatoes and carrots. "Something's wrong." She stated, unmoving, "What's happening? Tell me." But the septon shook his head.

"Go, run to him," said Ray, his tone serious and urgent, "Damn your fucking stubbornness, girl. Go to Sandor, _now_!" She ran as he had told her to do. The first of the screams had rung out in the air before she had even reached the tree line. Sparing a moment's glance back she saw the massacre begin. The people she had spent the past month with were being cut down like defenseless animals. They had been unarmed asides from the handful of axes and hammers that were being used to build the sept. Against swords and arrows, there was nothing that could be done.

It was the Brotherhood Without Banners, they had come naught even two days past, asking about stocks and weapons. Ray had been leading a sermon when three of them interrupted. Sandor had stood rigid when he recognized them, Anya tried to hide her face. For the first time since everything had gone to shit in King's Landing both she and him had found something good, doing good, and it was being taken away.

Tears pricked at her eyes and finally came the first time she fell over a small stump. Several times Anya tripped over her own feet, roots, and stumps. She could still hear the screams. A branch caught her roughspun tunic, pulling threads loose, and scratched her arms and cheek. The screams were louder now and more numerous, she swore she heard her name being called out as well. "Anya!" She ran harder towards the sound of her name, not caring about the briars that bit into her legs and arms or the low hanging branches that scratched her face, "Anya!"

They near collided, Sandor took her into his arms for the briefest of moments, so quickly it had not even been a true embrace. "They came back," she huffed, "the Brotherhood. They came back." He ran his thumb down her bloodied cheek and moved past her, running back to the camp. She followed him, stopping at the edge of the forest where she had hidden Dark Sister.

The field was littered with bodies, men and women alike, some almost still at an age to pass as children. Arrows had been embedded in some of the corpses, others had limbs hacked off. _Why do the good and innocent have to die?_ The tents had been torched though the skeletal sept had been spared. As Anya drew closer she saw the shape of a body that was hanging from the steeple. A cry escaped her throat when she saw that it was Ray.

"Go back to the isle," he told her, not taking his gaze of the brother who had been strung up. Anya remained rooted at his side. "I'm not leaving," she told him with an iron resolve, drawing sword from sheath. Sandor turned and took up an ax.


	39. Thirty-Seven

They had gone back to the Quiet Isle anyways. Someone had to break the news of what happened to Brother Ray and the villagers to the Elder Brother and others. And if the two of them were to go off hunting the three estranged members of the Brotherhood then they needed supplies. Though the residents of the Isle did not condone violence or the pursuit of revenge, they made no attempt to stop them from traveling down that path.

Narbert had offered the pair Stranger before she and Sandor were to set out at low tide. Sandor wouldn't take the horse though, his leg, though mended now and fully healed, was still a nuisance and wouldn't take the pressure of dismounting the large warhorse. They would do this on foot, even if it would take weeks longer.

Anya struck a piece of flint, sparks fluttered down. The small pile of twigs and kindling caught flame, slowly she added larger pieces of wood until it would last them through the night. Dancing in the fire were the faces of all the people she had come to know that had been slaughtered, for the briefest of moments she swore Benjen was among them. That sight was what stirred her from such dark thoughts. She pulled the old black cloak around her and looked over to where Sandor sat, sharpening the edge of two axes.

"Beric Dondarrion would have never condoned that raid." Sandor looked up at her sudden outburst. She knew Beric, Ned knew Beric. He was a good man, sent to protect the innocent from Gregor Clegane. "I don't believe Thoros would either." Despite the priest's pension for drinking and fighting, he served the Red God faithfully. "They're not butchers."

Sandor snorted, "I don't care what those two bloody deserters would or wouldn't have done. This fight ain't with them." Anya frowned but understood and turned over on her bedroll, her back to the fire.

Two days passed before there were even the faintest signs that they were following the right trail. He knelt next to a charred part of earth, Anya did as well and pressed her fingers to the ground. The soot was slick and potent. "We're getting closer."

She and Sandor found their camp early on the next day. Both of them recognized two of men as those who had attacked the village. There were four of them in total though, gathered around the dying embers of a fire from the previous night. Sandor tightened his grip on the ax handle and started forward, but Anya saw the bow lying near one of the men, and the swords that were at their sides. She pressed her hand against his chest and stopped him in his tracks. "Allow me," came her response to the sudden action. Sandor huffed, but nodded, letting her go about this her way.

Anya worked up a breathless pant and purposely tripped before reaching the men, her frantic attempts to stand again earned a mirthless laugh from Sandor and a daunting whistle from the stray members of the Brotherhood. "Would you look at this boys, our luck's turning 'round!" She pulled on one of the young men's arm and looked around like a frightened doe, a role she played well. "Please," came the gasping start, "you must help me, there's a man following me. He wants my head." Anya gently pushed them in the opposite direction that Sandor would approach.

Through the open path among the trees, there was no movement, only a light fog from the early morning that had yet to lift. "I'd want a lot more than your head if I were him," the bald one said with a salacious grin, Gatnis she thought was his name. Anya smirked as she saw Sandor's shadowed figure approaching. None of them had a chance to run.

Dark Sister was freed from its sheath and plunged into the foot of one of the men. He screamed out, cursing both her and the gods, but the cries didn't last long as she drug the edge of the blade across his neck. Blood coated the sword and the body fell to the ground, twitching for a few seconds. Sandor had made do with two of them, leaving only one that had attacked the sept and village with the point of Anya's sword at his throat.

Gatnis was foolish and assured his death when he managed to wrangle his sword from its sheath. Sandor swung his ax between the man's legs to which he let out a high pitch yelp. "Where's the other one? The one with the yellow cloak?"

"Fuck you and your bloody bitch!" He whimpered.

The burned side of Sandor's face twitched, "Those are your last words: fuck you?" He glanced at over at Anya, "and she's a lady, mind you."

"Cunt!" He squealed, almost in a manner that made Anya think he was honestly trying to think of something better to say. Anya was wiping her sword clean with the worn tunic of one of the deceased when Sandor let out a soft chuckle. That should have frightened Gatnis even more than the ax. "You're shit at dying, you know that?" The Hound raised the ax above his head and buried it in the man's skull. Anya felt the splatter of warm blood across her cheek.

That night passed with a looming tension and uneasiness between both Sandor and Anya rooting in anticipation. For revenge, for justice, for seeing a familiar face. By morning the fire between them had died to nothing more than a pile of ash. In determined silence, they set off along the road, following the path deeper into the Riverlands. The sound of horses whinnying and men speaking in low voices was what led them to the others.

Three men had nooses around their necks, standing on tree stumps with a short rope to the large, low-hanging branch. In the center of them was Lem Lemoncloak, those flanking his side looked like nothing but young men, boys almost. Anya had killed younger though. They both came to a stop and soon Beric Dondarrion turned. "Clegane." Some of the men turned, brandishing their swords and axes at the spoken name.

"Thoros, Beric," Anya greeted, despite what had transpired during their previous meeting, she was glad to see their faces and the familiarity of it all.

The Lightning Lord bowed his head but then looked at her. She looked so different from the lady at King's Landing, even from when the Brotherhood had taken her captive. Her soft features had hardened into something wolfish and menacing. Gone was the soft petals of a rose, all that was left were the thorns. "Always a pleasure to be in your company. Lady Anya."

When the ordeal was done, those that had wronged the village and tarnished the Brotherhood's name were nothing but corpses left for the crows. Beric led them back to the encampment, sharing bread, meat, and ale with them. It was odd to have bawdy company again, but it was something Anya wouldn't have passed up for the world.

"Shall we sing a song?" Bryen the Bard asked with his lyre in hand and echoing softly plucked chords. Thoros groaned, downing the rest of his flask. "What songs does the lady wish to hear?" Anya looked around the camp, shocked to see that so many people were staring at her. "The Rains of Castamere? The Dornishman's Wife?" The bard suggested, though his lips quirked upward as he looked between she and Sandor, "Or maybe even the Bear and the Maiden Fair?"

Anya frowned at the proposed selection and suddenly felt the urge to sing one of the songs she had learned at Winterfell a long time ago. The bard was waiting for her pick but it didn't come, instead, she softly began to sing and silence swept through the camp. Sandor still couldn't quite believe that her voice was so enchanting after she had told him that it would scare even the rats away.

" _Tall ships and tall kings_  
 _Three times three,_  
 _What brought they from the eastern land_  
 _O'er the flowing sea?_  
 _Seven lords and seven stones,_  
 _And one red tree._ "

The silence remained, unbroken. "Where did you learn that?" Thoros asked and it took a moment for her to muster an answer. It had been a long time ago since she heard a rasping voice sing those verses. Anya pulled the heavy black cloak around her shoulders and stared into the fire. "My brother, Benjen," just saying his name was enough to make her smile despite the painful ache is created in her chest, "he used to sing it to me when I was little. I can't remember the entire song, just that verse."

But then from the far side of the camp, another voice began singing a verse that she had forgotten and chills crawled up her spine.

" _Once we sat in our kingdoms_  
 _With hope and pride."_

She stood, searching for who was singing and from the darkness emerged a dark figure, with pitch hair and worn leathers. Yet then he lifted his head and she saw the sharp features and piercing eyes of one whom she would call a friend.

 _"And we ran through_  
 _The fields with great strides_ ,"

"Erac!" Anya exclaimed and the applause stopped, the entire camp fell silent once more. The man in question wore a large smile and set aside the arrow he had been fletching with quail feathers. They embraced for a brief moment, a faint rush of color appeared on her cheeks. "What are you doing with this rabble?"

He shrugged, "Turns out I fit in well here." She didn't doubt it. Smiling, Anya returned to her seat beside Sandor and leaned her head on his shoulder. It was a strange gathering, there was no denying that, between proper lords and ladies, drunk priests, and whoever else would swear their sword and fealty to the Brotherhood and their cause. Though, if given the chance to stay, Anya knew that this could become a family of sorts as hers was lost.

Tents were pitched in the clearing, even the spare ones, and when the fire had begun to die down she stood, making her way to one of them. Erac Cleaber took a seat next to the Hound, they both watched as Anya retreated into one of the tents. It was the sway of her hips that caught Erac's gaze, but Sandor only watched in silent awe at the way she carried herself in spite of all the shit she had endured.

When she had disappeared from sight, Erac looked to his side and found the heated gaze of one of the most feared men in Westeros upon him like burning coals. "The gods have given you a rare woman, Sandor Clegane."

 _The gods are cruel_ , he thought, _they fashioned the perfect woman_ \- Sandor stopped the thought from crossing his mind. _The gods fashioned a rare woman_ , Erac left to finish his arrows but the Hound was still in a daze. _The gods fashioned a rare woman and brought her back to me_.

-

"I want Winterfell for my family, but not for myself," Anya paused when she noticed the puzzled looks that had come onto Beric and Thoros's faces. "Harrenhal," she stated and that only proved to increase the confusion tenfold. "Harrenhal is mine by right of name and birth." Anya was tired of hiding now, she would always have a love for the north, but Sansa, wherever she was, had rights to Winterfell, even before Jon and Anya would not take Sansa's inheritance.

Beric began to understand then, he remembered the Tourney at Harrenhal in the Year of the False Spring and the Whent girl who had been the Queen of Love and Beauty. Barriston Selmy himself had attempted to protect the girl's title until Rhaegar won and crowned Lyanna Stark. The young girl disappeared then, rumor had it that she had run away, the Lord of Harrenhal claimed she had passed from a summer cold. "I am Anya of House Whent. The only surviving child of Lord Walter and Lady Shella." Somehow it still surprised Sandor that she was not a Stark by birth.

"Why do you want that burnt pile of shit?" Thoros of Myr asked before raising a bottle of liquor to his cracked lips.

Anya didn't quite know the answer to that question herself, other than that she just wanted a permanent place to call home again. "The past years have left that castle even more disgraced than it already was. Is it wrong of me to see that it is rebuilt? Restored to a great castle so that it may be a seat for fellowship in the Riverlands?"

The Lightning Lord looked down at his clasped hands, dismay crept up into his voice, "Petyr Baelish is the Lord of Harrenhal and it's garrisoned by the Lannisters." There would be over two hundred men there to keep the castle due to its enormity and position. Anya's father had always employed three hundred men for the guard and army. The Brotherhood had begun dwindling since the war ended and now only thirty men remained at most.

"Help me take it back from them and I will see that you are rewarded not just in gold but in steel, iron, and land." That would have been a convincing feat when there were more men, but now with bounties on their heads as declared by Tommen Baratheon, it was not money nor weapons that they desired. "Not only that, I will offer protection to the Brotherhood should they come to me." It was welfare that they wished for and with Harrenhal it could be provided to them or more. Both Beric and Thoros were silent, but Erac stood, pledging his sword to the cause already. "Will you stand with me, or must I do this myself?"

Beric Dondarrion wore a fleeting smile, "Aye, my lady, we'll see it done but first, we go north." Hearing those words meant she was going home in a manner, but it was not the sort of homecoming she wished for. They were going to fight the Great War, the one that really mattered. Winter had come.


	40. Thirty-Eight

Embers glowing a dim reddish orange had entranced Anya. The camp had grown quiet for the night, even Sandor had left her side and returned to their tent. She wasn't tired though, she was restless. She was going home. Beric Dondarrion reappeared from the shadows and sat next to her by the fire. The Lightning Lord passed her a wineskin and she drank. It had been so long since Anya Whent had good wine that she nigh forgot how sweet it tasted on her tongue or the warmth it created in her belly. "My lady," he addressed and she turned her cold gaze to him, "there is something you should know."

The Lord of Blackhaven thought quietly for a moment on how to say what he wished to tell her, it was, after all, a matter that she would hold close to her heart. "After the Red Wedding, we found Catelyn's body in the river, or rather a direwolf did."  _Nymeria_ , the direwolf had followed her through the Riverlands when she was traversing the King's Road to see Jon and some nights she still heard the lonesome cry of wolf calling for its pack. "A mockery of the Tully tradition, no doubt, but we did perform the rites and gave her a final resting place."

Anya bit back her tears and reached over, placing her hand atop his, "Thank you, Beric," but she feared even those words could not show him the depth of her gratitude. Catelyn had grown to be her sister through the years, just as the Starks became her family. "I pray that she and Ned are reunited." She wished desperately that they could be together again, for a love such as theirs did not deserve to be ended by death. Beric nodded, whether he agreed with her sentiment or somehow knew that they were together again she didn't know.

Silence lingered for several long minutes before the Lightning Lord looked over his shoulder in the direction that Sandor had gone. "You've stayed with him all this time?" Beric asked, knowing that it took a special type of person to deal with the Hound for so long. Yet when he recalled the trial that had taken place in the hollow hill of the Riverlands, he knew there was something being kindled between the two.

"I'm very fond of him," Anya admitted, there was a smile creeping up on her features that made her look youthful and whole again like she had once been at King's Landing before everything went to shit. "He's saved my life more than once now and I don't wish to be parted from him." Her companion seemed surprised at the confession but knew she had no reason to lie. With matters of the heart at the center of their exchange, he let himself think of his betrothed and what might have been.

"There have been many times that I wished for things to be different," he paused and Anya glanced over at him, "that I may see Allyria again." A wistful smile appeared on his hollow face as he looked toward the stars that could be seen through the thin veil of clouds, "You know," he mused, "I've quite forgotten the color of her hair."

-

Harrenhal loomed above her, a menacing plot of charred brick that had been overtaken by vines and thorny brambles. Though in moments it all changed, the tall towers were no longer decaying, the brick was dark, but not burned. Above the ramparts, the banners of House Hoare were raised and around her were men and women scrambling from the great castle. Swords and shields were being forsaken in the greensward, as were bows and quivers. A shadow engulfed the large castle and stones fell at the strength of the sudden hot wind.

One figure was still and unmoving, clothed in black leathers, a familiar face that she had not seen since leaving Winterfell. "Bran?" He was standing in the madness, eyes pale and unfocused and suddenly Harrenhal was gone, replaced by a dark wood that she did not recognize. It was snowing and she was alone now, calling out for her nephew.

Her breaths turned to ice before they could even leave her lips, the Whent girl stumbled through the thickening snow. Someone gripped her shoulder, the touch was harsh and burned, it burned like the cold did. He was tall and gaunt, with flesh pale as milk with eyes like ice. A crude crown of ice rested upon his brow. Anya reached for Dark Sister and froze when she felt that its sheath was empty. Behind the creature was an army of decaying souls, with flesh hanging from bones and limbs missing, some still garbed in the black cloak of the Night's Watch.

The forest turned into King's Landing, the throne room in which the downfall of House Stark began. It was a man with white hair and unnerving lilac eyes, the Mad King, sat upon the Iron Throne screaming. Bran was standing at the throne's side, whispering into Aerys Targaryen's ear. A bellow of pain permeated the air. Anya turned and saw the burning body of Rickard Stark hoisted between two pillars. Crying out at the other end of the room with a noose around his neck was Brandon, the rope tightened as he tried to pull free and reach his father. Anya looked around, panicking, but now she understood she was dreaming but nothing could will her to wake. "Bran!" came her cry, but the boy could not hear her.

She squeezed her eyes shut and fell to her knees only to stand and see a burning plain littered with the dead. The air was thick with smoke and scent of charred flesh and hair. Three dark shadows were cast over the land, one larger than all the rest. Dragons circled in the sky, black, gold, and emerald.  _Balerion has come again_. The earth shook when the black beast landed and his roar sent crows fleeing into the air despite the feast that awaited them. Atop the dragon was a lone rider, garbed in black with shining silver hair.

Then Harrenhal was afire. Stone from the towers came crashing down, other bricks melted into a pool of molten rock. The banner of House Hoare was burning and so was the banner of House Whent. Bran was there again, and Anya ran toward him, shouting his name but to no avail.

She jolted upright, gasping for air with a dagger at the neck of the person who had tried to calm her. He took her wrist, gently, and pulled the blade's edge from his throat. Anya's eyes were wide and frightened as she glanced between the knife and Sandor. The dagger fell between them when she released it. He drove the dagger into the ground and returned his attention to her. "Little rose," he rasped, his hand resting against her neck, it was slick with sweat despite the frigid air of the North.

"Sandor," she breathed, relieved, and slumped forward into his chest, clutching the thin material of his coarse tunic in her hand. Her breathing had yet to calm and now she was shaking. He drew the thick black cloak of a ranger around her shoulders, holding her against him in the black of night. "You alright?" Sandor asked after a couple minutes of uneasy silence.

"I think so," it wasn't a convincing answer, but how could it have been? If what she saw wasn't just a dream then now, Anya had witnessed the death of not just Ned, but Rickard and Brandon too. "I just -I just had an awful dream." He didn't reply to that, instead, he lay back, drawing her to the ground with him. Sandor Clegane couldn't chase away the dreams or memories that came to her in the dead of night, but he could damn well protect her from everything else.

Packing and the morning meal passed awkwardly for Anya, everyone seemed to be looking at her, but no one spoke. Even Beric and Thoros had glanced at her with a strange expression. Feeling ostracized by the Brotherhood, she went back to her tent and began deconstructing it. She had pulled the support poles from the ground and laid the material of the canvas tent out to be folded and rolled.

Someone knelt next to her, but it was not Sandor. A hand fell over hers, stopping it from trembling. "Erac?" The estranged Northman offered a weak smile. He took the leather ties from her and rolled the canvas even smaller, "I think everyone heard you scream last night."

Erac wouldn't tell her that almost the entire camp had stumbled from their tents thinking they were being attacked, or the curses that had been spoken about the dreaded Barrowlands playing tricks. Nor would he mention what some of them had said of her and the Hound.

Anya Whent did not need to hear of such things if she couldn't even come by sleep. "I -I had a dream," she admitted, feeling silly about doing so. Yet it did not fade as dreams are wont to do, and it felt all too real past and future. "At least, I think it was a dream."

A cold wind descended, carrying with it the first flakes of a fresh snow. Erac turned his gaze upward, observing the low hanging grey clouds with apprehension. Once Anya would have rejoiced upon seeing the snowflakes dance gracefully in the sky, now, however, it served as an omen of the war to come. Never had she wished for summer as much as she did now. "We're almost there," he muttered, standing with the canvas roll beneath his arm.

"I know," the Whent girl replied, softly, and despite everything she smiled. The familiar chilling bite was welcomed. The cold had encompassed her in its unforgiving embrace. Anya Whent had southern blood running through her veins by birth, but in truth, she had wolf blood,  _Stark_  blood. The North was her home. "I can feel it in my bones."

-

Sandor Clegane would not admit it to anyone, not even to himself, that he enjoyed seeing Anya Whent interacting with the children of Barrowtown. She held a young girl on her lap and was surrounded by boys and girls alike who did not believe at first that she was Anya Stark. After all, she had been pronounced dead at the hands of the Lannisters, but now, they had gathered to hear stories. Any story would suffice to please them, so she spoke of tales that came from beyond the Wall, the same ones that Old Nan had told her when she was a child.

The Brotherhood had stopped in the Northern town to take shelter from the heavier snows that plagued the afternoon hours. Their tents had been pitched, fires built, and supplies gathered from the small town that, since the war, was now dominated by widows and their rambunctious bairns. Sandor had stopped in his tracks when he first saw her with them, the armful of firewood and kindling forgotten. It had been quite some time since he saw her smile in such a manner.

Erac Cleaber was leaning against a tree, watching Anya too, jealousy festered within Clegane that turned into anger, yet it faded in an instant when she looked up from the group and at him. Suddenly thoughts that he had never entertained before began popping up in his mind, of children, a home, a family. Such things weren't meant for people like him though, and it rumor was true, Anya Whent was barren.

His feet were moving of their own accord then, and unsure of himself he sat next to her and endured the curious and frightened looks that the children gave him. "It's alright," Anya told them all, "he just looks big and mean." Sandor raised his brow at her statement and the mass of scarred flesh twitched at his very slight smile.

Some of the gathered children left, a few remained though. It was a girl of perhaps seven that came and stood in front of the Hound. She had long stringy brown hair that covered part of her face, but when she pushed it aside, there was a large scar that could only have resulted from fire. Her left eye was clouded and the skin of her brow drooped down, covering half of it, but despite the disfigurement, she was grinning. "We're the same," the girl said, pointing at the scarred half of his face. He paled as he looked down at the child. Soon she began to chatter on about everything and anything to him, not caring about who he was, or the stories that were told of the terrible deeds that had been committed by his hand. Anya smiled.

When the mothers came looking for the children, both Anya and Sandor stood, though she ushered them off. Struck dumb with the ache in her chest to see Arya, Sansa, Bran, Rickon, Jon, Robb, and even Theon once more, Anya hadn't realized that silent tears were gathering within snowy eyes. They were alone then and wordlessly, she reached over, weaving her fingers through his. Sandor squeezed her hand in return. It seemed that gesture alone was enough to convey everything that remained unspoken between them.


	41. Thirty-Nine

As they traversed further into the North the snows grew deeper and the days colder. Some days the light of the sun could not push through the thick, low hanging grey clouds to reach the land. It was those days that bore the ominous foreshowing of the Long Night to come. Progress had slowed since leaving Barrowtown, thrice they had come by solitary houses where families had frozen in bed or had slit their own wrists to avoid starvation. Those sights did not bother Anya Whent, not since they had left a small farm in the Riverlands.

It had been the very home of the people who had taken her, Sandor, and Arya in after the Red Wedding. The man fed them with what little he and his daughter had and gave them a warm, dry place to stay within the hay-filled barn.  _Fair wages for fair work_  had been what the Hound agreed to, but the next morning he had taken their coin for himself and told both Anya and Arya that they would not survive the winter.

He had been right. Rather than let his daughter suffer, the kindly man had ended it for the both of them. Thoros and Beric hadn't seemed bothered by the discovery, but it made Anya feel sick and Sandor felt something strange tugging at him. It took a moment for him to realize it was guilt.

When the band of road weary travelers settled in the for the evening, it took only a couple of minutes before the snoring of several men pierced the balmy air. Sandor turned on his side and reached out to wrap one of his arms around Anya, he hated to admit it to himself, but it felt unnatural to have her out of reach at night. Her icy eyes opened at the weight of his arm. "Thought you'd be mad," he muttered under his breath.

She shook her head and laid her hand over his thick chest, "I'm not. It's sad though," Anya noted with a forlorn tone, "they were good people, but even if they still had coin I don't believe it would've helped."

Money could not have saved them since half the country's crop had gone to shit. Everywhere but perhaps the Reach would be hard-pressed to store enough grain and meat to last through the long winter. Many more would die before summer came again. Anya leaned toward him, moved her hand to rest over his burned cheek, and kissed him, softly.

It always still seemed to surprise him, but after a quick second, he returned her gentle kiss, feeling wispy curls of flaxen hair tickle his neck. The Whent girl resigned herself to sleep then, a fading smile upon her lips.

Sandor Clegane could not sleep. Everyone in the small house seemed to be sleeping except for him. He glanced to his left at Anya. She looked at peace and the warmth of the embers gave her pale skin a golden hue that almost matched her flaxen hair, for a moment, he was going to reach out to her but thought better of it. Instead, he pulled the wool blanket back over her shoulders and gave her his own as well. She stirred but did not wake.

The night was colder than most, it was snowing again too. He had wrapped the farmer and his daughter and threadbare blankets and had dug a shallow grave just large enough for the both of them. A lantern contrasted the silvery light of the moon and cast long shadows across the open space between the house and barn. "Sandor?" Anya pulled the black cloak around her shoulders, clutching the thick fabric together at her chest as the wind whipped and howled. enough for the both of them.

"Go back inside," he grunted. Anya did not listen, instead, she helped him lower the two bodies into the ground and it seemed the smallest was the heaviest. Thoros of Myr soon wandered into the night and almost wordlessly, took up another shovel to help fill in the grave.

When it was done, Sandor drove his shovel into the hard ground, leaning forward on the handle and suddenly he began to recite a prayer from the Faith of the Seven. "We ask the Father to judge us with mercy. We ask the Mother to-" Sandor paused, still looking down at the freshly upturned soil, "fuck it. I don't remember the rest." His grip on the wooden handle tightened and Anya felt her throat constrict, she couldn't remember the rest of the prayer either. "I'm sorry you're dead. You deserved better. Both of you," he said, throwing down the shovel.

Anya Whent snapped out of her muddled memory and looked ahead at the bleak, white, landscape. For a moment, she couldn't be sure which direction they were headed. No one had said whether they would go to Winterfell or continue on to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. With the current snow falling and the thick pre-existing blanket, it would be a feat to make it another six miles for the day.

Thoros had shown Sandor a vision from R'hllor in the flames of the Wall and the army of wights that marched upon it at the command of a Night King. The red priest had tried to show her something in the flames on three different occasions, but she saw nothing, only fire, and charred logs and felt only the heat of the flames. It seemed a cruel type of irony that it would be Sandor who could read the fire after it had hurt and haunted him so long.

The progress was slow, for now, they traveled on foot having left the horses behind as they were half starved and unable to bear the full weight of a rider for long. The numbers in the group began to dwindle as well. From the Riverlands, there had been eleven members. Five remained. Some had left before the snows got too deep, another had frozen in his tent overnight.

"We can't spare the time to make a sojourn in Winterfell," Beric announced over a fire that was in its last stages of life. Anya glanced at the Lightning Lord, crestfallen, yet she understood the reasons. Winterfell could endure the winter, it would endure the winter, and House Stark would still reside in its ancestral home, but what was beyond the wall could not wait. "We will make for Eastwatch."

Anya had visited Eastwatch once. She had been but a girl at the time. Lord Rickard had enjoyed visiting the prominent castles of the Night's Watch, he preferred speaking face-to-face with the commanders of each garrison rather than receiving word by a raven. Ned, Benjen, and she had gone with Lord Stark once, from the Shadow Tower to Eastwatch, but that had been a lifetime ago.

She had pretended to be asleep when Sandor draped his cloak over her in the middle of the night. It was heavy and warm and smelled of smoke and iron. Anya rolled onto her side, stretching her hand out to touch his maimed cheek. "You're cold," she said, voice hoarse and wavering.

Sandor crossed his arms over his thick chest and turned his head so her soft touch faded, "am not," he grunted in return. Perhaps had she not seen a man freeze to death in his sleep she would have laughed at his stubbornness. "Sandor," she sighed his name in the way a mother would sigh the name of a child who kept getting into trouble, "Winter's here. There's no sense in lying." He huffed and turned on his side, letting his back face her.

For a moment, they were both still and silent, the only sound was that of the howling wind and the crackling of burning wood. Anya moved closer to him so that her chest was flush against his back and her arms could feebly attempt to wrap around him. At first, he went stiff as a bonefish. "The fuck you doing?" Sandor growled. A very slight laugh escaped her parted and chapped lips, "keeping you warm," she told him with an iron resolve.

Then, slowly, the tension began to ease from his muscles and unable to push her away, he covered the delicate hand that rested on his stomach with his own.

-

Like Castle Black, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea was a solemn place that had deteriorated to being little more than a fort. It appeared on the horizon as a black speck against the vast white monstrosity that was the Wall. The Shivering Sea laid to the east, dark and cold with the fringes of ice reaching out like hospitable tendrils. It had taken two weeks after they passed over the frozen channel of the Last River to reach the barren garrison that belonged to the Night's Watch.

The black, iron forged gates swung open at their approach. Everyone that had been in the yard stopped at the sight of strangers. Sparring swords were hanging limply in the hands of new recruits. The commander of the castle was a man with small, close-set eyes, a broken nose and a face that had been ravaged by pox. Serving at the Wall had made him lean, hard and wiry. He wore a stoic expression, looking over the rugged band of misfits that could have been mistaken for Wildlings with their road weary appearance. The commander dispelled nothing of what was passing through his thoughts, but as soon as Beric and Thoros spoke of their purpose and desire to cross over the Wall, the Black Brothers had laughed, stripped them of all weapons, and clapped shackles on their wrists.

Anya stumbled head first into the dark, stone cell and behind her the four men followed in, trying to shake off the members of the Night's Watch that trailed alongside them. She gathered her bearings and raced back toward the metal lattice door that was being slid back into place. "Release us!" She shouted, reaching for a sword that was no longer within its sheath.

The jailer had a pinched face with lips that looked like fat worms and a hairline that was receding beneath the cap he wore. He laughed and kicked at the cell, "Now why the fuck would I do that?"

"I am Anya Stark," she said with no hesitance about claiming her adopted house, "release us or send for the Lord Commander at Castle Black."

The jailer laughed even louder and longer that time, spitting on the ground next to where his cloak dusted the crumbling stones. "Anya Stark's dead you stupid whore," the Black Brother snapped, spittle flying from his thin, chapped lips. Sandor rose from the wooden bench and took a step toward the metal stockade. The man stumbled backward, his hand coming to rest on the hilt of his sword. He was a whole head shorter than the Hound and thin as a twig, too. Sandor wrapped his hands around two of the rusting bars, "You best be glad these bars are between us else you'd be a dead man."

"Who told you that I was dead!?" Somehow she felt as if she already knew the answer to that question, the same people who ripped apart her family were the ones to blame. "The Lannisters," answered the jailer, "said they hung her mangled body from the Red Keep's walls after they snipped her brother's neck." For a brief second, her brows furrowed in puzzlement, she could not understand why Cersei and her bastard son would pronounce her dead so soon. Her and Sansa both would have been an excellent bargaining chip, but then she realized that they had never planned to let her go and that Robb and Catelyn would have died not knowing she lived. Bran and Rickon too wouldn't know that despite everything their aunt was still alive, but from that sadness emerged a deep, suppressed rage.

"Eddard Stark was my brother, Benjen Stark  _is_  my brother, and Jon Snow is my nephew, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," Anya declared but it was to no avail. He still didn't believe her. "Shut your trap, you dumb bitch, the Stark bastard isn't Lord Commander anymore." Anger ran red hot through her veins as the jailer left, though it subsided soon after and from it all, it was his last words that stung her. Lord Commanders served for life and if he wasn't one any longer than that meant something had happened. Something had happened to Jon.

Despite her strength and resolve to push on through tragedies and hardships, Anya sunk down to the cold floor and began to weep. It was a poignant sound that would haunt those that heard it even in their grave. Beric and Thoros sat in silence, knowing that nothing they said could console her grief, for even though Jon Snow did not come from her own womb, she had just lost a son. Erac remained petrified in his place, only Sandor moved next to her. He laid his arm across her shoulders, draping his own torn cloak around her and Anya leaned into him, pressing her face against his chest. His wilting little rose had but only a few petals left to lose and he feared what would happen when the last one fell.


	42. Forty

Days passed, though it became harder and harder to tell when night fell and the sun rose through the small barred window at the top of the wall. Anya thought it had been a week, but maybe it hadn't been that long. The jailer came once every day with a young boy trailing behind him wearing all black, they slid plates and bowls of gruel beneath the small gap between the floor and the latticework of metal. Each time they came stumbling down the stairs Anya would demand to see the Lord Commander, stating her name and position but every day the two of them would laugh in her face before walking away.

Then she gave up hope and resigned to curling up on the solitary bench that was in the cell. It was wooden, splintering badly in some spots, half rotten in others but it supported her weight and Sandor's. Her honeyed hair fell forward in thick, unkempt, clumps and knots and in the dull light, Anya found that she now had strands of silver that mingled with gold. Life had taken a cruel turn of events. Sandor Clegane watched Anya Whent with a heavy and worried gaze.

The only thing more tiresome than a drunk Thoros was on that hadn't had anything to drink in days and was stone cold sober. "You know what would warm us all up?" Thoros of Myr asked with no shortage of acrimony in his tone. Beric Dondarrion looked down at his hands, hiding either his amusement or annoyance, Erac Cleaber leaned his head back against the damp stone wall and crossed his arms. Anya glared at the Red Priest, as did Sandor. No one spoke because they all knew the answer already, but Thoros answered his own question anyway, "some fucking rum."

Erac sighed and for a moment silence hung in the frozen air. "If you don't shut the fuck up about your rum I'll kill you before the cold does," Anya snapped. One of the black brothers had taken his rum when they stripped them of weapons and had not offered even an empty bottle in return. The Lightning Lord chuckled under his breath. "I wouldn't push her, priest," the Hound said with only a slight amount of mirth.

It must have been the middle of the night when Anya woke, restless and freezing. She had gone through many of these nights, most had been at Winterfell in the months following Sansa's birth. Robb and Jon were still young then and Catelyn's attention had been focused on her new daughter so when they woke from night terrors, Anya would sing them to sleep, or try to tell the stories that Old Nan once told her.

There was a song that Benjen had taught her that came to the forefront of her mind and it took several long moments for her to recall the entity of the first verse, but even then she was not sure that it was correct or whole. She leaned her head against the stone wall, where water seeped through the mortar and had frozen in a thin sheet. Her voice was hoarse and cracked into a near silent whisper after the first words.

" _When winter comes, when life is frozen_  
 _When the moors they hide away under the snow, f_ _ingers of doom will clutch the chosen, all beasts will shiver, from the lion to the crow._

_When winter comes, when times are starkest, when the wailing of the wolves fades with the sun. The wilds are numb, the days are darkest, the fates of many cease to rest on only one_."

And then Erac, having heard the age old ballad in his own troubled attempts of sleep, began the second verse in a soft low voice that nigh frightened Anya when she heard it.

" _When winter comes, when thrones are idol, when the brave they cower under eyes of blue, the rising roar, the endless cycle turns the darkest myths of yesterday to truth_."

His voice was rich, deep, and smooth.  _A bard's voice_ , Anya thought, but to her, the song would always sound better when sung with her brother's voice, the permanent rasp that Benjen had given the lyrics a haunting quality. Sandor roused from his pitiful attempt at sleeping and soon Beric and Thoros had awoken too. No one said a word, there was no need for any of them to speak, not now, not after that song had been sung.

By the time the first shreds of light were passing through the small window, all but Anya were awake. Sometime in the night, she had laid her head upon Sandor's shoulder and he had draped his own worn cloak around her and that was all it took for her to succumb. Beric Dondarrion crossed his arms, his gaze falling on the way the Hound brushed his fingers over Anya Whent's cheek as if he were afraid his touch would break her. It was odd, to see such a feared man melting at the hands of a woman. Poetic even.

"You should tell her before it's too late," the Lightning Lord said, he had taken off the worn leather patch that covered the puckered socket where his eye belonged to adjust the knot. Only a blind fool would have said there was nothing between the Hound and the Rose. The Lord of Light had given Sandor Clegane a second chance and rare woman with the patience to love a man like him.

"Tell her what?" the Hound snapped, like a dog that had been kicked one too many times. "Don't be thick, Dog," Thoros of Myr snorted.Clegane stirred when the heavy footfalls of more than two men came echoing down the stairs, as did the rest of the cell's occupants. Though it took but a second before Anya was on her feet and clinging to the iron bars, "Jon?!" She called, not quite believing her eyes. The Bastard of Winterfell took three long strides and grasped onto her trembling hands, a look of relief formed in his dark eyes that

-

Clegane stirred when the heavy footfalls of more than two men came echoing down the stairs, as did the rest of the cell's occupants. Though it took but a second before Anya was on her feet and clinging to the iron bars, "Jon?!" She called, not quite believing her eyes. The Bastard of Winterfell took three long strides and grasped onto her trembling hands, a look of relief formed in his dark eyes that was quickly replaced by anger.

"What is she doing down here?" He demanded, the jailer kept silent, but when Tormund Giantsbane stepped toward him with a large hand hovering over a bone dagger, he started to talk, quickly and almost inaudibly. "She was with them, claiming to be the deceased sister of your lord father." Jon gripped the man by the collar of his cloak and shoved him toward the cell doors. "Release her. Now!" he commanded.

He fumbled with the keys, using the wrong key three times before finally finding the right one to open the door and when it swung open, both Anya and Jon lurched toward one another. Anya wrapped her arms around him, and his around her. She squeezed her eyes shut and curled her fingers into the thick fur that trimmed his cloak. "Jon," she breathed in a quivering voice. "I thought... they told me," the words were staggered and poorly enunciated, "they told me," she couldn't bring herself to say it, Jon's arms tightened around her, but then they departed with almost saddened smiles.

Then she met the gaze of a set of piercing dark blue eyes that were a mirrored reflection of Robert Baratheon's, even the thick, black hair was reminiscent of Old Fat King. It took a moment for her to realize they had met before, in King's Landing on the Street of Steel. He had been Tobho Mott's apprentice and had forged her the set of armor that had been lost piece by piece on the road after the Battle of the Blackwater. "Gendry?"

Robert Baratheon's bastard son bobbed his head down in greeting. "M'lady," he responded and she could still hear the Flea Bottom accent laced within the shortened title.

"Jorah Mormont? I that really you?" The Old Bear was easily recognized, even if it had been more than a decade since Ned sentenced him to death for selling poachers. Before that though, Ned had sought a betrothal between the heir to Bear Island and his sister. Of course, that fell through when Jorah married Lynesse of House Hightower. Even though age had begun to turn his hair and whiskers silver, those soft blues the color of a spring sky were unmistakable. Jorah Mormont stepped forward and took her hand, placing a soft kiss to her knuckles, a knightly gesture, "It has been more than a few years since I have looked upon you, Anya."

Everyone had been released from the cell, given rooms and a proper bath before Jon called them all into a meeting. Anya sat on his left, with Tormund Giantsbane on her right and Sandor standing behind her with arms crossed, uninterested in the politics that were being discussed. Slowly, the true purpose of Jon's sudden appearance at Eastwatch came out. The plan was a terrible one, stupid and rushed. She glanced at the men who sat around the table in the library, and then back to Jon. "North of the Wall?" Anya asked, once more just to be sure that she wasn't imaging what had been said in the past hour, "to catch a dead man?" It sounded even sillier the second time.

Jon nodded. "I'm coming," she said suddenly, her tone leaving no room for squabbling over the matter, her mind was already made up on the matter but that didn't stop him. "No Aunt Anya," Jon said, shaking his head, he couldn't risk losing her, he wouldn't risk it, "stay here or return to Winterfell."

"You will not stop me from going," she told him, standing to unbuckle the sheath that held Dark Sister. Anya withdrew the blade and tossed it onto the table, dark ripples slithered across the silver steel and the rubies in the crossguard and pommel glimmered like fresh blood, "that sword is Valyrian steel, just like yours, I can kill them just as well as any man can."

She didn't care if he was the king of the whole bloody Seven Kingdoms, Jon Snow was still the child she had nursed at her own breast, sung to, and played with at Winterfell. Still the boy she helped train in the yard late at night to prevent a scolding from Ned. Jon Snow may have been both Stark and Targaryen but he was  _her boy_ , and she had to protect him. "Have you forgotten who first taught you to hold a sword, Jon? Who first trained you and Robb before Ser Rodrik got ahold of the two of you?"

He sighed, lowering his eyes to the wooden table as he once did as a boy whenever he had been scolded, "No."

"Then you can't stop me from going," she proclaimed, and she meant every word of it. Jon Snow looked to Sandor Clegane as if asking that he somehow convince her to stay behind, but the Hound shook his head only once and Jon pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration and defeat.

"We leave at first light," Jon announced and slowly the room emptied out until only the two of them were left.

Anya raised the tankard of dark ale to her lips and swallowed the stale brew without complaint, Jon looked down into the amber liquid of his own drink. "The Hound, huh?" he asked, a twinkle in his eye. Jon knew he had never seen his aunt blush, not even when Jory Cassel paid her compliments and picked winter roses for her, but her cheeks had gone red and the ale was too weak to blame.

"Love's a funny thing isn't it?" She mused. Jon thought of Ygritte then, and suddenly he missed her but the thought faded as quickly as it had come when his aunt spoke again. "King in the North," there was a hint of amusement in her tone as she said the title.

"I didn't ask to be," he admitted. Anya leaned over and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Then you'll be a good king." The reassurance didn't sit right with him, not when the Mother of Dragons had demanded his fealty.

A solemn expression overcame him, more so than usual, and it reminded Anya of Lyanna. "Jon-," she began, suddenly thinking of Ned and of the last words that they had exchanged in the black cells of King's Landing, but it didn't seem like the right time to tell Jon, she didn't know if there would ever be a time that felt right.

Gently, Jon pushed her hand from his shoulder. "You should get some rest," he told her knowing that whatever he could say to make her stay behind would be futile. Anya nodded and stood, though before leaving she leaned down and kissed Jon's forehead.

It was already dark out and the wind howled through the narrow, open halls of Eastwatch. There were only a handful of people still in the yard at this hour, most were packing snow into barrels and buckets to take down to the vaults where the food was kept. Anya stopped at the door belonging to the room they had allotted her, but she didn't open the door. Instead, she turned back and went to the room that was four doors down from her own.

Sandor Clegane gripped onto the obsidian dagger that had been distributed earlier when his door creaked open, but when he saw her, he sat the small knife back on the night table. Anya brushed the snow from her cloak placed it over the back of a chair. "What are you doing, woman?" He grumbled, only half watching as she shed the worn pair of britches and wool tunic.

She slipped beneath the sheets and thick blankets. "Going to sleep." That had been a lie, it was likely she wouldn't be able to sleep knowing what awaited them beyond the Wall, and Sandor knew it. Anya turned on her side and met his harsh gaze, no doubt he was thinking about the next days. A fragment of fear crept up onto his stubborn expression, but only Anya would have been able to decipher it. She had seen the same look when he pulled her from the Blackwater Rush half drowned and bleeding out. And that was one of the wonderful things about them. They didn't need words to say what they meant.

She moved closer to his body and touched her forehead to his arm. He lifted it high, making room for her to curl up next to him and she almost cried. Anya pressed her body to his, laying her head on his chest. His arm came back down to hold her to him, his hand resting in her hair. She was warm and safe and those two things were not like to be found north of the Wall.


	43. Forty-One

The winter furs were heavy but warm, and frankly, that was all that mattered. The kitchen at Eastwatch had provided them each with a ration of salt pork, enough for a mission that was to last no longer than four days, they even gave Thoros his rum back, the canteen was filled to the brim with the sweet liquor.

Anya looked up at the Wall. If she squinted she could make out of the top against the grey sky. It was a monstrous thing and only madmen dared venture beyond it. "Are you sure you're not coming with us?" she asked, still looking upward.

"Yes, Lady Anya," Erac Cleaber responded, remembering both her position and his own. He glanced toward the King in the North and black to her, "Jon has asked me to ride to Castle Black." The grip he had on the reins of a black and grey speckled mare tightened.

Since their first encounter on the road to traveling together with the Brotherhood, Anya had grown fond of Erac Cleaber. He was honest, strong, a good fighter, and maybe most importantly, he always tried to see the lighter side of life and that was contagious. "Safe travels to you, Erac." He bowed his head and swung himself up into the brown leather saddle. "Stay safe, Anya," he said in return before turning away and trotting off through the opened gate of the fort.

Jon left the company of Ser Davos Seaworth and joined everyone that had gathered in the courtyard. At the helm of the small party was Cotter Pyke, commander of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, in his hand was a torch and a heavy ring of keys. As the first portcullis lifted free of the snow and ice, the flame flickered harshly, barely managing not to be extinguished. Jon looked back at the unlucky group that had chosen to follow him and took a step forward, following after Pyke.

The tunnel was long, narrow, and dark asides from the three torches that were held by members of the Night's Watch. Anya felt that she was walking down the gullet of an ice dragon, descending deep into darkness. There was a series of four iron barred gates, each one thicker than the last and then a pair of solid gates that marked the end of the tunnel and the start of the true North.

The wind cut through the tunnel, sweeping snow off of the ground and back into the air. The members of the Night's Watch fell to the back, leaving Jon at the head of the group. He turned back, looking over his companions and with a heavy breath, stepped forward, leaving the safety of the Wall behind and like fools, they all followed him.

Only a couple feet away from the massive structure the sight of Cotter Pyke with his dwindling torch began to fade for the snow and the closing gate. The metal made a soft thud when it hit the ground and Anya looked back for a second and swallowed the budding fear that had taken root in her throat.

Tormund Giantsbane, the self-proclaimed Husband to Bears, could more accurately be described as a pain in the arse. The wildling had first taken to pestering Gendry and then the ginger fucker decided to try his luck with the Hound. "You're the one they call Dog," he pointed out. Sandor grumbled and gave a gruff "fuck off," in response, continuing to tighten the leather straps that held a thick layer of grey-brown fur to his boots.

The wildling must have taken that as an invitation, however, because then he trailed along next to both Anya and Sandor. "They told me you were mean," Tormund said. She almost laughed, mean wasn't a word she would have ever described Sandor Clegane as. "Were you born mean or you just hate wildings?" he asked.

"I could not give two shits about wildlings," the Hound proclaimed, his eyes cutting into the wildling. "It's gingers I hate," he snarled.

"Gingers are beautiful. Kissed by fire," the wildling boasted, his own hair and beard were the color of hot flames, then we pointed toward the scarred half of Sandor's face and in a caustic tone added, "just like you." The Hound slapped down Tormund's finger, sneering. "Don't point your fucking finger at me," Sandor growled. He turned and strode away, leaving Anya next to the wildling, though soon Gendry and Jorah were standing with them.

"You weren't born mean," she heard Tormund say over the wind, and maybe that was true, "You've got sad eyes." That was partially true in Anya's opinion, but she would never tell him that. "Would you fuck off," Sandor rasped.

"Why're you such a grouchy old dog?" Tormund asked and the Hound turned toward him. Anya glared at the wildling with evident exasperation. "Why're you such a cunt?" he bit back in return. Beric and Thoros looked back over their shoulders at the trio with mirth in their eyes. The shrewd and bitter remarks were amusing at first, but now they wouldn't shut the fuck up and it was grinding down on her nerves even if she, and the others tried to ignore them.

Alas, when Anya, and most of the company for that matter, grew tired of the two's constant contretemps, she fell back and stepped between the both of them, pushing each of the two men an arm's length apart. "Seven hells!" she cried. Tormund watched her with a raised brow and Sandor crossed his arms like a child waiting to be scolded, "would you two stop your bickering?" Silence fell between them and over the entire group. The only noise came from the bristling wind and the cracking of ice somewhere off in the distance. Anya stomped off, ahead of even the wildlings that led the way.

Jon fell in stride with her now that she had slowed and let those who were familiar with the terrain lead again. Anya looked over at her nephew and for a moment she forgot that he was grown, no longer a boy to coddle and spoil. He bore scars from battles and had seen things beyond the Wall that she could not hope to imagine. Life had not been kind to either of them.

"I should have told you while we were still at Eastwatch," he said suddenly, and her brows furrowed, "Arya and Sansa are alive and safe, they're at Winterfell. Bran too."  _The wolves are coming home_ , Anya thought though before she could say anything Jon was speaking once more. "And I've spoken to Daenerys Targaryen too," he added.

She bristled at the name and thought of Brandon and Rickard, how they had ridden south and were burned alive at the hands of the Mad King. Now the daughter of Aerys Targaryen sought to reclaim the Iron Throne and Anya did not know which side of the coin had landed face up when she had been born into the world. But trivial things such as houses did not matter with the coming war. The living would need to band together and that meant setting aside petty differences and rivalries. "She's asked me to bend the knee and support her claim to the Iron Throne and in return, she will help defend the North."

Anya knew that the Northerners would not take kindly to a foreign queen, an invader from the south, not after what they had suffered through at the hands of the Lannisters. The snow was picking up again and the hours of daylight were dwindling. Jon looked over at his aunt, waiting for her response whether it be critical or supportive. A soft sigh escapes her lips as she thought of what Ned might have done had he been in a similar situation.

"Don't let any of our people die because of a king's arrogance and pride." Jon stopped in his tracks and mulled over her words.

"I don't like the wildling bastard," Sandor snapped when the two of them were secluded from most of the group. Anya almost laughed at his acrid tone, but instead, she nudged him in the side with a broadening grin. "You don't like him," Anya explained, "because he's almost the same as you." He glowered at her, however, her smile did not fade until everyone came to a sudden halt.

Ahead of them, the storm had picked up, snow reduced visibility until it seemed that the air and land blended into one endless sheet of white. The Black Brother that had led them disappeared, yet in the distance was a dark figure, too large to belong to a human, and walking on four legs. Anya took a hesitant step forward and squinted. "It's a bear?" she said, but it came out more of a question than a sure statement. "Big fucker," Sandor added.

Then the dark shape grew larger, moving closer. "Do bears have blue eyes?" Gendry asked, his grip on the warhammer tightening. There was a scream and then the Night's Watch man was running back toward the group with the bear on his tail. The beast disappeared and in a brief second reappeared, closing its jaws around the Black Brother, only to vanish from sight again. Anya looked around, but there was nothing but fast falling snow and wind, anything in the distance wasn't visible.

With weapons at the ready, everyone formed a circle, back to back and waited in the minacious silence. The wait lasted an eternity, but when the bear jumped from the bleak surroundings and took a wildling none of them had been prepared. Both Beric Dondarrion's and Thoros of Myr's swords went up in flames.

Jon raised Longclaw, but the bear knocked him back and then Anya was running toward him. She pulled Jon back to his feet and turned back when a sharp cry pierced the air, her heart clenched. The wight bear, now aflame, had clamped its jaws down on Thoros's chest. Anya watched in frozen terror for a split second. The scene playing out didn't seem real, it was something that belonged in Old Nan's stories, not in the real world.

A sharp cry left her lips, both her hands gripped onto the hilt of Dark Sister with fierce determination but just as she took a step toward the undead bear and reared back to slash at it, Jorah Mormont pulled her back just enough that he could dash forward. He drove a dragonglass dagger into the bear's rotting side and it fell, limp and unmoving. That was all it had taken to kill it.

Her gaze drifted from the burning carcass of the bear back to Thoros of Myr. Anya knelt next to the Red Priest and began pushing aside his layers of clothing to see the extent of the damage. The Lightning Lord knelt opposite of her. She stripped away one of her gloves without hesitation and pressed her hand against the largest of the lacerations. Those that were still alive gathered. "We have to get him back to Eastwatch," Jorah advised but Thoros bit down on his lip and shook his head, glancing toward the sword that was still afire in Beric's grasp.

Beric uncorked the priest's flask of rum and placed it against his lips. "Get on with it," Thoros gritted out after three large swigs of rum. Anya lifted her hand and the blood began to surge out again, seeping through his clothes and into the white snow. Beric pressed the flaming sword against the priest's bloody chest. The smell of burning flesh jumped up into the air, mingling with the rotten smell of the bear. Sandor turned away, his face pressed in a hard grimace. Not because of the fire or the smell, but because he had stood there and done nothing.

Once Thoros was back on his feet, fumbling forward at a slower pace, they left the burning corpses of the bear and two others in their wake. There was no time to linger, the fire and smoke would only draw out more unpleasant things. "Come on you drunk fool," Anya muttered when the priest took a miscalculated step that almost sent he and she crashing into the snow and ice. He was weak from his wounds, but still standing. He raised the flask to his lips and took a short swig before recapping it and tucking it away into his furs.

"Always knew I liked you," he slurred, drunk from both the pain and the rum, she tittered in response and the group carried on, further into the barren wasteland of the true north.

The Baratheon bastard suddenly halted. "What was that?" Gendry asked, alarmed. The noise of a fast flowing water filled the silence, there was a river near, but then there was grinding and cracking ice. Everyone stopped, Jon looked around, almost panicked. "Jon?"

He glanced at his aunt and kept her gaze as he spoke, "everyone stay low." Anya and Beric eased Thoros behind a large, dark, and icy rock, crouching down behind it with hands resting on the hilts of their swords. At the base of the hillslope was a group of walking dead, at the head of the party was a ghastly figure with skin the color of milk and dark armor. A White Walker.

Jon motioned with his hand when the group came nearer, and with drawn blades and daggers they crept closer then raced down the hill. Anya had almost gone with them, but she couldn't leave Thoros in his current state. So instead, she watched as they smashed and cut through the wights, only for them to reanimate. She kept her eyes trained on the White Walker and his ice blade.

"I can't just sit here," she gritted out, looking out from the ice covered boulder. Anya glanced down at Thoros and back up to see a wight choking Jorah Mormont and another one on Tormund's back. "Go then," the priest urged, he pulled out one of the obsidian daggers and nodded for her to go.

Anya raced down the embankment of snow and ice, sword drawn. Jon parried the White Walker's blade with Longclaw and stepped back to regain his footing and leverage. He hadn't seen Anya racing at the creature from behind and he hadn't calculated that they would each swing their blade at the same time. Dark Sister sliced through the Walker's leg, Longclaw through its gut and it shattered like glass against a stone floor.

All but one of the wights fell with their leader. Jon glanced at his aunt and nodded, both breathing heavily. Everyone circled around the creature, it moved like a trapped animal, panicky and dangerous. It still wore stained furs and tattered boots, but its skin was sloughing and hanging off in places to reveal bone. What unsettled Anya the most was its eyes, blue as a sapphire, unnatural and empty. She swallowed hard when it raced at her, but knocked it back with the ruby pommel of Dark Sister.

It was Tormund who knocked the wight to the ground. Both he and Sandor knelt, quickly binding it with rope. Then it began shrieking, a terrible sound that made it seem like it was calling for others and from the way Jon commanded that they silence the wight, Anya realized that it had been calling for aid. Over the dark mountain, the clouds were darker, the snow was even thicker, and the sound of grinding ice filled the silence.

Jon turned to Gendry, "Run back to Eastwatch, get a raven to Daenerys, tell her what's happened." The bastard nodded and Jon looked at his aunt, she was the closest thing he had ever had to a mother and she did not deserve to trapped beyond the Wall. "Aunt Anya, go with him."

The words seemed to shock her, it took a handful of drawn out seconds for her to realize that he was telling her to go. Anya shook her head, "I'm not leaving you, Jon." She wouldn't. She couldn't. "No," Anya replied, voice quivering. She looked over the rugged group and shook her head, she couldn't forsake them here. "I'm not leaving any of you!"

"You have to," Jon pleaded, taking her cold, and wind burned face into his gloved hands. Sandor stepped forward, pushing past Tormund and one of the remaining Black Brothers. The King in the North stepped aside with his head bowed. "Go little rose," Sandor told her but she stood, unmoving. He gripped onto her shoulders and met her steel gaze. "You need to go," he repeated, this time it sounded more like a command. Anya shook her head, tears gathering in her eyes. She didn't want to leave him, or Jon, or anyone, but time was running out.

A look of panic formed in her eyes as she looked around at everyone again. Then she turned her gaze upward toward Sandor Clegane and stepped toward him, her decision made though it was not an easy one. Anya threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. A bitterly cold kiss that tasted of blood and tears and premature farewells. "Go," he breathed, pushing her toward Gendry Baratheon. She bit the inside of her cheek, to keep herself from crying or to stop the sharp remark that was forming on her tongue, she wasn't sure which it was.

Anya Whent turned away from her group, her small little makeshift family, and together she and Gendry began to run, not looking back.


	44. Forty-Two

Her lungs burned and the cold air was hard to breathe.

"Keep going, Gendry," she commended him. With each step, she was falling further behind. The bastard turned back to look over his shoulder, concerned that he could no longer make out her labored breathing. "Don't slow down on my account! Run, boy!" Anya shouted, waving him toward the Wall.

He didn't listen though. Gendry turned back, "Lady Anya!" He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her up to stand straight. Anya pushed him away, though, and he stumbled back. "I can handle myself," she assured him, "now go, you're faster than me!" Hesitant but compliant, he nodded and turned back, sprinting off toward the Wall. Anya only prayed that he wasn't too late.

The gusts of wind that stabbed through her layers and furs were like the breath of an ice dragon. The trees of the dark forest were bare of leaves except for those with pointy green needles. Above the forest loomed the Wall, just appearing and still leagues away. Anya pressed her hand against the trunk of one of the trees and leaned her head against the rough bark with a racing heart and shallow breaths _. The forest speaks in many tongues_ , Ned used to say _, listen well but do not answer_.

Then there was a shadow through the trees, small at first, but then it grew larger and split from one into three, and three into nine. Even in the heavy snow, she could make out their eyes, bright blue and filled with hate. Anya closed her eyes for a brief moment as she drew Dark Sister from its sheath. The wind grew colder, the snowfall thicker. A sound rang out in the air, like the cracking of ice on a winter lake and then the shadows advanced.

The blade was crystal, sharp as Valyrian Steel and clear as ice, it hadn't even hurt when the Walker caught her on her forearm with the tip it, all she felt was the cold. Anya ducked as the blade swung at her neck and turned on her knee, slicing through the monster's abdomen and then it was gone, as were the wights that had followed him. Or so that was what she thought.

Something blunt hit her on the back of the head, pushing her face down into the thick snow with Dark Sister inches from her grasp, and then something was pulling at her legs, dragging her backward. Her scream pierced the still, frozen air.

A black rider came from the trees and fire engulfed the remaining wights. Anya scrambled to stand and gather her sword and dagger. Before she could protest or scream again she was on the horse with her arms holding tightly to the rider, she pressed her cheek into the black rider's back, her hands digging into the layers of leather and fur that covered his torso. When they slowed she relaxed only a little until stiffening at how familiar the rider seemed.

It was a cave beneath a weirwood tree where he had taken her. The rider dismounted and she saw only a sliver of his face, though by blue eyes alone Anya knew who it was. Her heart was racing and she nearly threw herself into his arms. "Benjen," she whispered his name and slipped from the saddle. Benjen Stark seized her and crushed her against his chest. She was crying and holding onto him with a fierce determination to never let go again, "I thought you were dead," she wept, no longer fearing that her tears would freeze upon her cheeks.

Anya took a step back and he pulled down his hood and face covering. His skin was sickly pale with a blue tint and he was cold, so cold that it took her several moments to realize that he was not wearing gloves and that his hands had been frostbitten. Patches of skin on his cheeks and nose had taken on the same blackish hue. "Only partly," he laughed, but it sounded more like cracking ice than the warm chuckle that Anya had once known. "I have missed you more than words can express, dear sister," Anya fell into his embrace and he held her tightly against him.

Benjen knelt and ran his hand over an odd looking stone that had the runes of the First Men engraved into its smooth surface. Whatever it truly was, she knew that it was something ancient and powerful. Anya knelt next to him, "I knew I should have followed you up here all those years ago. You can't keep yourself out of trouble."

A smile tried to tug at his lips, but it turned into a frown. "It's not safe here."

"I know that; it's not safe anywhere," Anya retorted. She moved closer to the fire and pulled Dark Sister from its sheath, its dark ripples seemed all the darker and now the rubies within the hilt and cross guard truly looked like blood. Benjen balanced the blade on his blackened fingers and passed it back to his sister, nodding in approval. "I killed one of them," she said, no sign of emotion to be found within her voice.

It was when she lifted the supple leather sheath that Benjen Stark saw the long, thin cut on her arm that still bled. "Your arm," he pointed out and she glanced down, pushing the ruined material aside to see that there was a dark, almost blue spot coming at the ends of the cut, but it wasn't frostbite. The Ranger sat next to her. "Let me see it," he said and Anya surrendered her arm to his care.

He ran his thumb along the length of the cut, wiping away the blood that had gathered before pulling out a small shard of dragonglass from his belt. "This is going to hurt," he told her with his typical amount of penury, "but it must be done to stop the magic." Anya's brows settled in a deep furrow and she was half tempted to snatch her arm from his grasp. "Magic?" she asked in return, despite seeing White Walkers and wights beyond the Wall it still seemed odd to believe in magic.

Benjen nodded, his long and thin face solemn as ever. "The Walker's magic," he explained, knowing well that only one of two things could have left a cut that clean and he doubted his sister had cut herself with her own blade, "if left then it would spread and you'd become one of them."

Anya paled, understanding now what had happened to her dear brother. "Who helped you?" she asked, not looking down as he eased the tip of the black glass beneath her skin, deeper than the cut itself had been. Benjen did not answer at first and in turn, she watched as he finished pushing the piece of dragonglass into her arm.

Blood sprung up from its entry point before the burning took over. Anya Whent believed that the worst pain she had ever felt had been when Melly and Meg laid a red hot dagger on her festering shoulder, but this, this was indescribable. It felt like she was burning from the inside out, but this time it wasn't the heat, it was ice.  _Nothing burns like the cold_.  _But only for a while. Then it gets inside you and starts to fill you up, and after a while, you don't have the strength to fight it_. It had been Benjen who told her that.

The Ranger took his sister's face into his cold hands, forcing her to look at him. She gritted her teeth together and tried not to scream. "The Children of the Forest," he answered, "a piece of dragonglass into the heart was the only way they could stop it." Anya squeezed her eyes shut, the slim cut had begun to seal itself, leaving nothing but a faint silvery line. The markings of the Walker's magic had faded too. When her eyes opened again the pain was gone and Benjen was looking into a clear winter sky.

She looked down at her arm, felt the raised scar beneath her fingertips and frowned. "Can't you come home?" Anya suddenly asked, her voice had turned meek. She longed for the days when they were children in the yard at Winterfell, they had all been happy then, they had all been safe then. Benjen should have never left for the Wall, Ned should have never gone to King's Landing.

"No," he began, "the Wall's secrets keep me from passing over." The dead could not pass over the Wall, she remembered that from the stories that Old Nan used to tell them. The Children of the Forest had interwoven their deep magic into the ice as giants hauled blocks of ice and built it up brick by brick. "I saw Bran," her brother added, "he was with the Reed girl heading back to Castle Black."

At first, she wondered why he would ever come north of the Wall, but she feared that the question was one she would not want to know the answer to. "He's home now," Anya told him, "with Sansa and Arya."

That brought a faint smile to his cracked lips. "The lone wolf dies but the pack survives," Benjen repeated Ned's words. A chill crept up her spine. The pack was finding its way home, but she was no wolf. Benjen was the lone wolf. He reached toward her, placed his cold, blackened hand against her cheek, and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. "Rest, Anya, tomorrow I will take you back to Eastwatch." He would not have his sister out here in the wilderness when the threat was drawing so near.

He hummed a familiar song, half singing at certain verses. It made her forget about everything because suddenly she and he were both young again, leaning over a small cradle in which a crying Jon lay in the middle of the night.

" _The Warrior stands before the foe, protecting us where e'er we go._  
 _With sword and shield and spear and bow, he guards the little children_."

Anya bolted upright, searching for her sword, only to remember that she was with Benjen and that he had just shaken her awake with urgency. "Come, we must go." He exhorted with no explanation. Anya tied the sheath of Dark Sister to her belt and secured her cloak beneath her chin, drawing up the hood to hide her face before stepping out into the bitter cold.

The black horse reminded her of Stranger in size and temperament. Benjen lifted his sister up onto the saddle and mounted in front of her. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek into his back as he drove his heels into the horse's flanks. The thundering of hooves split the cold silence that loomed in the forest. Anya looked back, expecting to see the vastness of the true north, but instead what she saw was the Wall, slowly growing smaller. "The Wall's the other way!" she exclaimed.

"I know," the Ranger replied, showing no signs of slowing or stopping. They passed over boulders, ravines, and through the same forest that Anya had seen before. They were riding further north, into the grasp of the enemy. 

-

"Jon!" Anya slid off the horse, too fast for Benjen to stop her. His clothes were soaked, his skin cold, and his dark hair had begun to turn to ice. Jon Snow leaned on his aunt, Longclaw limply held within his hand. "Uncle Benjen," Jon breathed in disbelief. The Ranger ushered the both of them back toward his black mount.

He helped Jon onto the saddle and placed Anya behind him. "Ride for the pass," he said as the dead marched closer. That was when she saw the glint in his eyes, he didn't mean to follow with them. "Go! There's no time."

Anya gripped onto his shoulder and the Ranger looked at his sister with softened eyes. "Yes, there is! Come with us," she pleaded. Having just found him, she did not wish to lose him again so soon. He was family and Anya Stark did not forsake her family.

Benjen shook his head and brought his hand down upon the black courser's rump sending it into a fright before it began running. "Benjen!" she screamed, but he had turned his back toward them and now faced the Army of the Dead with only a flaming ball and chain. "Benjen!" her scream turned into a broken cry as she still looked back. The dead descended upon her brother and all she had done was watch. Anya pressed her cheek into Jon's frozen back.

When they reached the Wall and then Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, Jon's furs were frozen stiff, his skin was ice and Anya's face felt numb from the icy wind and her own tears. The heavy black gate opened and Black Brothers rushed forward in haste to unlock the iron portcullises within the dark tunnel.

From the castle, Anya could see the bay and a ship which now had its black sails loose. A red three- headed dragon was painted on the canvas. A dinghy waited on the shore and once she and Jon were within the small boat, Davos Seaworth climbed in and picked up the two oars. Anya looked back the fortress and felt her heart sink, Benjen, Sandor, Beric, Thoros, and even Tormund had been lost beyond the Wall, but then looked down at Jon and felt that just maybe everything could be okay in the end.

Davos and she hurried Jon into one of the cabin beds and stripped him of his frozen clothes, replacing them with blankets and layers of fur. He glanced at Anya and nodded, leaving her in silence, the ship slowly rocking in the waves. She placed the drawing table's chair at his bedside and sat, waiting. It was something she hated doing.

"I'm sorry," came a soft spoken voice from the door of the chambers. Anya looked up, finding that it was a woman with silver hair, violet eyes, and skin that was white as the snow on the distant northern shore. She needed no introduction for Anya already knew who she was. Daenerys Targaryen. The Dragon Queen stared down at the deep, gouged scars upon Jon's chest with a meek, terrified kind of fondness. She took a seat opposite of Anya, folded her hands in her lap and waited too.

"I helped raise him," Anya began when the silence was too much, not entirely sure why she was confiding such information to the daughter of the king that had killed her father and brother. "I sacrificed my ability to have my own children for him. I nursed him at my own breast." She would never forget the day that Eddard Stark brought back an infant in place of Lyanna. "Ned brought him back to Winterfell wrapped in a bundle of fur, pink and squalling," the briefest of sighs passed through her parted lips, "I loved him from the moment I laid eyes on him."

Daenerys lowered her gaze back to Jon, "Forgive me if this seems rude," she began, "but I do not know your name."

Anya looked up and into a pair of soft violet eyes that had seen too much cruelty for one so young, but there was also kindness and love. Something that she had not believed Targaryen's capable of. Perhaps the coin had landed on the proper side when she was born that stormy night on Dragonstone. "Anya Whent," it did not feel right to lie about who she was any longer. "I was raised with the Starks though, and have claimed their name for many years," Anya explained.

"He spoke of you," Daenerys said quietly and with sadness in her voice, "At Dragonstone, I mean." Anya's eyes drifted back down to Jon. Perhaps one day she would ask what all he said about her to the Mother of Dragons and all the brothers at the Wall. "There was a man asking after you," Dany said suddenly, and Anya's gaze snapped back up. "Sandor Clegane is what he named himself." Her brows furrowed and her heart leaped. Anya covered her mouth with her hand to stop the estranged sob from being fully heard. "He has a cabin on the second deck."

She stood and pulled her cold, damp cloak around her before fleeing the room in great haste. She believed that he was dead when it was just Jon that she and Benjen found, believed all of their group to be dead. Anya tried to gather her thoughts and decipher what her heart was saying but they were both too loud and saying too many things. With her heart pounding, Anya raced below the ship's main deck.


	45. Forty-Three

She breathed his name in a weary voice but the relief was evident in her expression and the way her shoulders sagged forward. He gripped onto her wrist and pulled her into his cabin. Sandor Clegane would never admit it, but seeing Anya Whent standing before him alive and unharmed was enough to make his heart clench and beat a little faster. He had feared the worst when they arrived at the Wall with only the Baratheon bastard there to greet them.

"I thought you were dead," she cried, though tears would not come. The panicked fear she had felt upon seeing Jon alone beyond the Wall seized her heart again. There had been no one else with him and she had let herself believe the worst. "It was just Jon."

Sandor grasped her face within his hands and pulled her gaze away from the wooden floorboards. "Aye, the fool stayed behind when the Targaryen girl came." Anya bit her cheek and nodded, a way to reassure herself that this was all real, not just some sick dream meant to torment her. She brushed away his hands and moved to the small table with two glasses and a flagon of wine. It was a strong red vintage, too bitter to be from the Arbor. It burned as it slid down her dry and scratchy throat but pooled in her stomach with warmth. "How is he?"

"Unthawing," came her ill-humored reply, but that was something she needed to do too. Her limbs were still sluggish and the cold hadn't left her bones yet, but there was little warmth to be found on a ship sailing through the cold northern waters.

Anya poured another glass of wine and downed it in two gulps before kicking off her heavy boots and fumbling with the ties of her damp breeches. "What're you doing?" He rasped, somehow, after all this time it still seemed odd that that woman would willing disrobe before him. "Getting out of these wet clothes," she replied, shrugging out of the leather and fur

The wooden planks creaked under his weight. His hands fell onto her shoulders, stopping her before she could pull off the coarse tunic, and she could feel his hot and uneven breath on the back of her neck. Anya turned to face him, rose to the tips of her toes, and wrapped her arms around his neck. He looked shocked for a fleeting second, though when it passed he bent down and caught her lips with his own and his hands slid from her shoulders to beneath the hem of the loose shirt.

He was all feigned cool detachment until he touched her skin. Then something not only stirred in him, but it took over his thinking. The rest of his world became an unimportant blur that was banished into the far recesses of his mind. The only thing that mattered was touching her more, kissing her mouth, her stomach, her breasts. He tried to be gentle with her, but it was hard. His hands were made for chopping wood and wielding swords, not caressing or holding.

Sandor pulled her tunic overhead without a word and laid her back onto the bed. He hovered over her, his weight braced on bent forearms. He took the opportunity to study her eyes. He'd labeled them grey, at first. If he was feeling particularly poetic, he might think they were silver. Neither word did them justice. They were so solid, so bright, the exact lustrous color of a polished shard of metal. If you looked closer, like he was just now, you'd see the swirls of glittering onyx black and tinges of blue at the edges. They weren't monochrome or boring. That had simply been his terrible judgment. They were beautiful. She was beautiful and he had never told her that.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight again," he told her. Anya looked at his scarred face and found that there was no jest in his words nor expression. Still, with the timidness of a virgin, she raised her hand and pushed aside the dark hair that had fallen in front of his drooping, scarred brow. He turned his head quickly and gripped onto her wrist, placing a single soft kiss to the center of her palm.

She felt him move his hand up along her rib cage, stopping to rub his thumb back and forth, just below her breast. As he kissed her more fervently, moving down across her collarbone, his chest pressed and moved against hers.

His shirt had come all out of the waistband of his breeches, and his hair was mussed and messy. The ties at the neck of his shirt had come loose, and she could just make out the dark hair that grew on his chest. The dim lantern-light betrayed a sheen of sweat on his skin, and his breath was ragged. Anya's hands fumbled blindly until they found the hem of his tunic. She pulled the scratchy fabric up, tangling it around his face and arms until he relented and tossed the garment to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Her eyes were wide and dark, watching him as he lowered himself to rest above her, propped up on his forearms. His left shoulder shook, weakened from age and the persisting pain of his fall, but to see the look in her eyes he would do it all over.

Sandor slipped his arm beneath the curve of her back and turned; she gasped, her hands falling onto his chest. He grasped onto her hands and held them against his chest, her fingers escaped the confinement of his, or he had released them, he did not know, and moved to his neck, pulling him up and even closer, while his hands wrapped around her hips, digging into her soft flesh, pressing her into his body. He reached up to cradle her cheek, his thumb tenderly stroking her cracked lips as her warmth enveloped him.

They rocked back and forth to the steady rhythm of the boat. She felt his breath stutter under her palms, and saw the tendons in his jaw clench and unclench. In a quick, jerky movement, she is beneath him again, his sweat-drenched forehead rested against hers. Then he slid inside her again, it was so slow, so incredibly gentle that she felt like screaming in frustration, though, he's fully inside her and she gasped hands clenching in the scratchy sheets beneath her.

Sandor loses the pace that had been set, and the Whent girl arched her back, head tilted back in a silent scream, she shattered. Warmth filled her belly and he stills, his weight still hovering above her. Anya pushed on his shoulders and he lay back, chest rising and falling in pace with her own, but she climbed over him and settled one leg on either side of his waist and wearing an almost sad smile.

Anya threaded her fingers through his and pressed his hands back into the featherbed, her heart was racing, the words were stuck in her throat but she had to tell him before it was too late, "I love you," Anya couldn't quite pinpoint the moment she realized it. Maybe it was after the Red Wedding when he protected Arya, or maybe it was before that when he said he'd take her across the Narrow Sea and away from Westeros and the pain, or when he carried her off during the Battle of Blackwater, maybe it was when she returned to the Quiet Isle and first saw him standing in the stables with a trowel and hammer in hand.

She laid her head on his chest and smiled when his arms wrapped around her to keep her close. He was sure he loved her too, even if it seemed he was incapable of saying it, yet he liked to think that she already knew.

-

The captain of the vessel had announced that Dragonstone was still another two days away if the winds held in their favor for the entire time. Anya stood on the main deck, hands fixated on the railing. She had sat in on Daenerys council meeting with Jon and knew now exactly why they had traveled North of the Wall, risking life and limb to capture a wight. Tyrion Lannister had planned a meeting between the three monarchs in hopes to form an alliance. There was only one true enemy now and they did not care about castles or noble houses. The breeze coming off the water tasted of salt and tears, the mist from breaking waves kissed her cheeks with its stinging lips.

Had she known the Dragon Queen better, Anya would have spoken directly to her, but instead, she found Jon below the deck, mulling over a piece of parchment in his cabin. "Jon." He turned at his name and rolled the slip of paper back up. A rift had formed between them during their time at sea and Anya could not pinpoint the cause. She hated the thought that he could be upset with her.

The cabin didn't seem large enough for her to pace about, so instead, she sat on the corner of his bed and wrung her hands together nervously. "I know that we must speak with Cersei, it's unavoidable because we need the help of the Lannister Army," she began, and then the images of vats and clay pots filled with volatile green liquid flashed through her mind, as did the skeletal remains of both children and young dragons, "but not in the Dragonpit."

Jon furrowed his brows and clenched his burned hand into a fist. "Why?" He asked. Anya frowned, her features growing more severe, "She blew the Sept of Baelor and all its occupants to kingdom come with wildfire because they wronged her in some fashion!" If that news had reached her in the Riverlands than Jon should have known too.

"And why do a handful of dead Southrons matter?" His outburst made her question if this was still the same child that she had raised _. I am a Southron_.Yes, the Northerners had never truly held those in the South with much regard, but they were still living, breathing, flesh and bone with hearts and family and Cersei Lannister had wiped out House Tyrell and the Sparrows in the holiest place in the city without a qualm.

Anya knew what wildfire could do, she saw water burn green and the skin melt like soft butter. "There's a large cache of wildfire beneath the pit. I've seen it with my own eyes." She knew that there were more caches hidden around the city, put in place by the Mad King. He had wanted the city to burn.

"It's a diplomatic meeting," Jon reassured her, and potentially himself. "Yes," she concurred.

It was to be a diplomatic meeting, to seek a truce to fight the true enemy, however, Anya Whent knew Cersei and diplomacy was not her strong suit, "but that won't matter to her. Not when a would-be usurper walks into her home, with the brother she wants dead at her side. You're a threat to her too you know, as soon as they named you King in the North you put a target on your back Jon."

"I know the risks," he bit back. "And I know Cersei Lannister better than anyone on this ship." Her claim was true. Only Anya, and mayhap Sansa, had seen the cruelty that the Lannister queen possessed, her unmerciful nature, but also the heart of a mother. She loved her children dearly, just as Anya loved her brother's children, but that didn't matter now. All Cersei's children were dead, poison and suicide.

Jon was silent for a long moment. "When were you going to tell me?" He asked and the confusion written over Anya's expression told him she did not understand or was at least feigning ignorance. His anger got the best of him, "You're not a Stark!" He almost regretted the words as soon as they left his lips, but honor and honesty were the foundations of House Stark, and she had betrayed them.

"You heard?" came her soft inquiry, it hid the shock and pain that stabbed through her.

"Every word," was his brusque answer. Anya raised her chin in dignity, "then you heard me say that I have loved you since you were a squabbling babe."

"You lied to me!" Jon yelled, "to all of us!"

Anya glanced down at her hands in guilt but not shame. She was a Stark, not in blood but in name, and a Whent by birth, she was noble and strong as iron. "Yes, I did." Somehow she kept her tone even, void of almost all emotion. She rose from the corner of the bed and looked Jon in the eye, "but do you know why I ran away from my home? From my birth family?" The only people who had known the reasons were now dead, but somehow she wasn't.

The King in the North clenched his jaw and flexed his sword hand, none of the anger had dissipated from his countenance. "Because my lord father beat and berated me for being born!" Anya snapped and all the memories of that cruel childhood came rushing back like a wall of water over a fragile shore. Jon paled. "All his sons died but for some reason, I, a pitiful girl who can't carry on the legacy and name of my house, lived."

Lord Walter Whent made sure to remind her of that often, that she was a burden to House Whent and would be their downfall. It was true now, House Whent would soon be extinct, just like the Tyrells and Boltons. "My mother loved me, truly she did, and was kind but she was raised a proper lady and rarely challenged his decisions. I was being raised for the slaughter, to be sold off to the highest bidder like a prized boar." Jon glanced down at his scuffed boots.

"My father would slap me across the cheek if I spoke at dinner without being addressed." She wore the purple, black, and blue marks like a badge when she was younger, they were her battle scars. "When he found out that I spent so much time in the library instead of my lessons with Septa Nyla he would burn my books." Anya made sure to hide her most prized books in Tower of Ghosts, he father refused to step foot near the old sept, let alone the haunted tower.

"When I played wooden swords with the butcher's boy in the yard he whipped the boy until he bled to death and made me watch." It was one of the reasons that Anya had been so angry and upset at Mycah's murder. On that night on the Kingsroad, history had found a way to repeat itself. "When I stumbled into one of his meetings with my hair unkempt, he took a dagger and cut it off as punishment before the noble lords of the Riverlands and laughed when I began to cry." She looked more like a boy with short lopped off hair at the age of six. Anya Whent was not a vain person by any means, but she loved her hair in a way that was selfish

"When I defended one of the serving girls who had befriended me, I thought he was going to kill her too, but instead after all the guests were gone he shoved me to the floor and got in two good lashes before my mother stopped him." Those two scars remained and would forever be a reminder of her hardships. "Finally the tourney came, I saw my chance to escape and took it," Anya remembered the way she had curled up beneath one of the leather coverings in a wagon, frozen and afraid, and then how Maycey took her in as a kitchen maid.

"Before Ned recognized me, I scrubbed pots and floors, lived with the servants and chambermaids. I was happier even though my knees were always scrapped and bruised. And even happier still when Rickard Stark didn't send me back to my father and instead welcomed me into his home." Jon raised his gaze back to his aunt, guilt now seeping its way into his dark eyes, in truth he felt sick.

"I know you think your life has been hard," Anya remarked, "and parts of it have been. But when you were brought to Winterfell you had a real home and a family that loved you from the start, it took me eleven years before I had anything like that. So no, I'm not a Stark, not by blood." Anya paused and stepped forward, taking Jon's gloved hands into her own. "But a house name doesn't change the fact that I love you, Jon, that I raised you as my own child, it doesn't change any of that."

"I didn't know," he responded quietly, cheeks aflame with shame, like a scolded child.


	46. Fourty-Four

Dragonstone was an imposing fortress built for militaristic means and intimidation. The dark stone was harsh against the grey-white sea cliffs and green grass, shaped by fire and sorcery. Even from the ship, Anya could see the dragon motifs that were placed around the castle. From a distance they seemed to be live creatures, moving and writhing but were, in truth, nothing more than stone. The island grew larger as the ship drew closer to the bay and for the first time in many years, Anya felt the breath leave her lungs in sheer awe. Kings Landing was a marvel of engineering, no doubt, but Dragonstone? Dragonstone was beautiful, the way Harrenhal should have been.

From the side of the ship, the captain and crew ushered them all into small dinghies to row ashore, But while the castle and dark beach were breathtaking the real sight to marvel at was that of two large dragon landing on the top of the cliff. One with rippling black scales, the other with green and bronze. Drogon and Rhaegal are what Daenerys named them.

Several people had come to gather on the dark sand beach as the setting sun painted the sky with warm hues, unfitting for the cold that was coming. Anya suspected them to be Daenerys's advisors and captains. Most wore relieved expressions mixed with equal amounts of sadness and grief. Sandor Clegane took Anya's hand, pulling her from the small boat.

He looked more battle worn since the last time they had spoken and she looked more withered than he last remembered. Tyrion Lannister looked up at Anya Whent with wide eyes and mouth slightly agape, not quite believing the sight before him.  _She is a walking corpse_ , he thought, but that wasn't the right way to describe sister of Eddard Stark. "Lady Anya," he sighed her name and reached out to take her hand, now hardened with callouses and small scabs that had yet to heal.

"Tyrion," she greeted, fondness lingering in her voice. Regardless of the miserable times in Kings Landing, the Imp had always managed to make it a little more bearable with his wit and love of reading. Two things that Anya Whent valued in a friend. "I am most pleased to learn that you have survived." Rumors over the land had told her the Imp was dead, that he had killed his nephew and father and disappeared in a puff of smoke, that somehow he had found his way across the Narrow Sea.

Tyrion Lannister let himself smile despite the solemn circumstances surrounding their sudden meeting, "As am I."

-

Daenerys picked up her skirts and took a seat next to Anya Whent in Aegon's Garden. Tall dark trees surrounded them, pines and cedars that blocked out much of the sun. "Your grace," Anya greeted, but her focus never left the pale yellow rose that she held between her fingers. Scattered around her feet were petals of red, yellow, and pink with barren thorny stems.

"Your father was a cruel man," the Dragon Queen said suddenly, catching her off guard. Anya pricked her thumb on one of the small thorns and watched as a bead of dark blood formed and slid down into her palm. "He was," she affirmed. Walter Whent was not a kind man but in comparison to Aerys Targaryen he would have seemed a proper knight, "as was your father." Dany bristled at the mention, she was not her father, nor was she her brothers.

"Harrenhal," she said suddenly, pushing silver strands of hair behind her ear. "That was House Whent's seat," Anya told her, though she suspected that Daenerys already knew that, "and where I was born."

She had been born on a spring morning, with the scent of fresh cut roses and blood lingering in the air. Shella Whent had almost died birthing her and it was something her father made sure she never forgot.

Daenerys Targaryen clasped her hands in her lap. "If I am to help the North in this war," she began in a serious and sincere tone, "then those who cannot fight will need a refuge further south."

Anya frowned, even if she wanted to take back the ruined castle the men who had sworn their swords to her cause were leagues away or dead. Though the castle itself had surely fallen into the cruel hands of time. The walls were worse than she had remembered as a child. Even the Great Hall had holes in the roof. It would take an army just to make it habitable again. "It's in ruins, Daenerys," a deep sadness had engulfed her tone and expression. It had always made her sad that no one cared enough to restore Harrenhal to its once grandeur, all she had were the stories and history.

"I have heard the tale of the castle's great size and its curse," Dany mused, still hopeful, "there must be time to make some repairs." Anya looked back down at the rose within her grasp then let it fall to the overgrown cobble path with the others. "You are the Lady of Harrenhal, it is yours by right of birth." It was not as if she did not know that, but it still did not feel natural to be named that. Part of her was still Anya Stark, part of her belonged in the North, at Winterfell, not in the South. Daenerys reached out and seized Anya's hands, "Take it back." It nigh sounded like a command.

"Before I went beyond the Wall that's what I wanted to do. Now I only wish that the people I love will endure the Long Night to come," she sighed and looked at the small scabs forming on her fingertips where the thorns had pricked her skin. "But no living person deserves the fate that comes with the Walkers." Not even Cersei Lannister. Anya Whent would take back Harrenhal for herself and for every living soul that would take refuge under in those ruins.

"Tell me how many men will it take to reclaim Harrenhal." The castle had almost been abandoned when last she crossed paths with the dark decaying stone, the War of Kings had ended and so had the need for a proper outpost at Harrenhal.

"If it is still garrisoned by the Lannisters for Petyr Baelish, I suspect that thirty men could do it." Thirty good men would be more than enough to clean out the few soldiers that had been left behind.

Daenerys nodded and spun the white and grey pearl ring around her finger. Anya suspected it was a nervous habit, just as she would fiddle with the ends of her hair. "Then it is done. I will have forty Unsullied and Dothraki placed in your charge. After this meeting in King's Landing, you will ride for Harrenhal." It seemed surreal to have the assurance that her birth home would soon be hers, and restored.

Anya stood and ran her palms down the front her breeches, there were two Northmen that she wanted at her side when the time came to storm the gate. "Would you allow me to use a raven or two?" The Dragon Queen's lips turned upward into a small smile, she nodded.

The sea dragon tower overlooked the Narrow Sea unlike its twin that looked over Blackwater Bay, its winding staircase reminded her of the crumbling towers of Harrenhal as she ascended them. Halfway up she could begin hearing the coarse call of the ravens and doves. Like Winterfell, the old maester's chambers lie beneath the rookery, abandoned now for some time despite the papers and letters scattered around the desk and tables.

She pulled two pieces of fresh parchment from a half-opened drawer and dipped the nib of a turkey feather into a pot of ink that she hoped had not dried from disuse. It felt odd to write again in truth, it had been ages since such duties were expected of her and when the nib touched the surface of the parchment, she pressed too hard and it split, splattering ink across old letters and her own tunic and face. Swallowing her frustration, Anya picked up another quill and dipped it into the ink, this time mindful of her heavy hand, and carefully the words flowed with the same eloquence that had always been in her nature.

Anya knocked only once on the stone and wooden door that led to another guest chamber before it swung inward. "Aunt Anya," Jon greeted, stepping aside to allow her entrance into the dark room. She wrung her hands together as she moved closer to the great stone fireplace. "I wanted to speak with you," she began, but then a heavy sigh escaped her lips, "but now, in truth, I've forgotten what I meant to say." That wasn't entirely truthful though, there were hundreds of things she wanted to talk to Jon about.

Jon poured two glasses of wine and passed one of the silvery goblets to Anya. She glanced down at the blood-colored liquid and saw her pale and gaunt reflection looking back at her with dark eyes. "I'm sorry," he said suddenly, drawing her from her thoughts and back to him, "for what I said on the ship, I should never have said what I did. I know it doesn't change the fact that you're my aunt, you're family."

The wine burned her throat, but she took two large gulps. "It's okay," she responded in a soft tone, "you needed to know the truth." It was time that all the Starks knew the truth about her lineage, but ravens wouldn't do, she needed to be able to tell Arya, Sansa, and Bran in person.

Silence fell over them and for perhaps the first time, Anya truly did not know what to say to him. So much had changed, they both had changed so much in the few years since leaving Winterfell. Jon had undoubtedly changed for the better, but for herself, she could not say. "Daenerys told me that she's sending you to reclaim Harrenhal."

That caught her attention, she looked up with the most ephemeral of smiles. "Yes." The thought that perhaps the great castle could be remembered for something other than Harren Hoare's cruelty and the dragonfire that ruined it filled Anya with a strange type of warmth. It wasn't her home, per se, but in time it could be. With the coming war and winter, it would soon become a home for hundreds. "It will be a refuge for those truly unable to fight."

Jon winced when he stretched his arm out to pick up the crystal decanter of wine. "Do they still hurt?" she asked, meaning his scars. They were deep, angry gouges that still looked as if they could be set to bleeding again at the gentlest of touches. He shook his head, then opened his mouth to begin explaining how he'd gotten them, but it was an explanation that was not needed.

"Ser Davos told me," she explained, Davos had told her when they had first stripped the sodden furs from his back after riding hard to the wall. He had told her that the brothers of the Watch had named him a traitor for aiding the Wildlings and had put not one but several knives into his chest, but then there was the Red Witch. She didn't know what to think of the tale, but she didn't deny its truth. If she ever met Melisandre of Asshai then she would thank her.

"I miss him," Jon said suddenly, looking down into an empty pewter goblet. Anya looked up at him with furrowed brows. "Father, I mean," he added and it made him sound like a small boy.

"As do I," she breathed. She missed Ned, Brandon, Robb, Rickard, Catelyn and every Stark that she had once known. "I miss Winterfell before it all went to shit," she said with a dry, humorless laugh, "when you and Robb would climb the castle walls with Bran following behind. Arya would sneak out at night to play swords with Jory and I. Rickon would still be a babe at Catelyn's breast, and Sansa, she would have her dolls and pretty dresses and sing songs of true knights." She would have given anything to have just one more day of that calm, peaceful life.

"We can't go back though," Jon told her. Anya sat her empty goblet down, "No," she said. "The past is already written, the ink dry." The past had been written in blood, they could either remember or reread it, but not rewrite it.

"It's late," Jon said whilst turning to look out the narrow window situated in thick stone, "and we depart early in the morn." It was a days' sail to King's Landing and there was still much to be done before departing Dragonstone. She nodded and stood, brushing down the skirts of her dress before bidding her nephew a good sleep. Anya slipped from the room and turned down the hall with a heavy sigh.

-

"Follow me," the evening meal had drawn to a close, night and snow fell over the island. Anya took Sandor's hand and pulled him along toward the garden. The gardens of Dragonstone had survived the worst of the Baratheons and the ravages of time, though still, it's neglect was evident. 

The legend has said that the castle was built with the heat of the earth beneath it and that one-day Dragonmont would reawaken and spew fire and smoke. Anya was inclined to believe the legends, after all, areas of the island reeked of brimstone. Though until that day, there was still much to be enjoyed on the secluded island.

The air was heavy and humid with steam rising from the small pond beneath the canopy of tall trees. It nigh reminded her of the hot spring in the Glass Gardens at Winterfell. When she had been younger, there were several nights that came to mind where she and Jory would sneak off from a feast or event early. That was years ago, though, and now instead of an almost childish infatuation, there was something more than that, something built slowly and built to endure.

Sandor had followed her in silence. In truth, he would follow her anywhere, even into the eye of a storm, or the heart of a raging battle. He would follow her, he would protect her, he would cherish her. Anya's slim and calloused fingers slipped from his hand as she stepped to the edge of the hot spring. The water was warm to the touch, like a freshly drawn bath that had a handful of minutes to cool. Sighing, Anya stood, dropping her dress and inhibitions to the ground in a single fluid motion.

She stepped down into the water and looked over her shoulder with a raised brow, ignoring how his eyes took in the full length of her exposed flesh. "Aren't you going to join me?" Anya asked with a short chuckle. She ducked under the water and reemerged looking like a mermaid, suddenly it didn't seem so hard to believe that the Grey King would have taken one for a wife.

His clothes had been left in a crumpled pile next to the puddle of silk and wool. Sandor Clegane let out a small, barely noticeable contented sigh as he traced the constellation of freckles at the curve of her shoulder with a cautious hand and let his fingers thread into the loose waves at the back of her neck.

Anya leaned her head back on his shoulder and glanced upward at the scarred half of his face, a sad song on her lips. "Many lovers I've called from the ships that I see," she sang, Rhaegar Targaryen had sung those verses to the court of Harrenhal during the tourney on his silver-stringed lyre and all the ladies wept, "but I've drowned everyone in the deep, salt sea."

 


	47. Forty-Five

Anya stood at the bow of the ship and closed her eyes, feeling the salt spray kiss her cheeks with a stinging softness. Her thick black cloak did not seem to be enough to keep the chill of the air from creeping into her bones. They would be arriving in the capital soon. She dreaded the thought of being back within the city where so much had happened to her family.

The planks of the deck creaked and gave away Sandor Clegane's approach. "Never wanted to see that fucking city again, and yet here we are," he muttered. Anya could only nod. If she closed her eyes she could remember the Blackwater burning and the blood that covered her sword and hands. She reached up and pressed into the scar on her shoulder, it still pained her from time to time. "I don't like this."

She looked up at him and felt the sigh tugging at her lips. Ten times over she had told Jon and Daenerys about the Dragonpit and the wildfire that was concealed in the hollow floor. She beseeched them to ask of another place to meet, the Red Keep perhaps or on the docks, anywhere else than a place that could be destroyed in an instant. Anya had seen what wildfire could do, had seen it melt flesh from bone. It was no small wonder why the seven hells had been painted as fiery voids.

"Neither do I. The cache of wildfire," she breathed, thinking of the vats filled with the volatile green liquid. Cersei had already blown the Great Sept of Baelor to kingdom come with the stores once hidden by the Mad King and Anya knew that she would do it again. "She's the type of bitch that'll burn just to know her enemies are dead too."

On the horizon was land and the tall spires of the Red Keep. Anya frowned and turned to follow Sandor below the deck. She did not wish to see the wretched city until there was little choice. Out of the sight of the others and in the darkness of the ship's belly, he pulled his little rose close, wrapped an arm around her waist and feared the thought of having to let her go.

* * *

 

One thing that had not changed was the smell. Smoke, sweat, and shit. They disembarked the ship, with Jon and Tyrion at the head of the party. The streets merged in familiarity from there. It had been on these streets were the common folk rioted, turning on the King and themselves. It had been in a nearby alley where a group had tried to rape her and where Sandor had found her with a ripped dress and blood covering her arms. There were no pleasant memories to be found within the city walls.

The captured wight rattled around in the wooden crate and both Anya and Sandor looked over their shoulder at the box. The quest had almost killed them all, but they had their proof of the dead. Jon motioned waved for Anya to join him, but her attention was diverted into to Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. Bitterness consumed her.

"You shot me," Anya gritted out from behind clenched teeth as the sellsword fell back at her side. Bronn glanced down at her, an arrogant smirk curling his lips. He put his thumbs through his belt loops and walked with a proud, cocky stride. "Aye, I did, got a nice golden purse for it too when I told the Queen you were dead." Anya's glare was venomous, the sellsword chuckled, he was accustomed to receiving worse looks from women, though perhaps they weren't so eager to drive a sword through his heart, "you're a survivor though."

Silence fell between them. "I took the job by choice you know," he said it too casually for Anya's liking and with a shrug of his shoulders, "otherwise it would've been Trant and a sword through the heart instead of an arrow to the shoulder." Her shoulders sagged for a moment at the realization.

Their stride had slowed until Anya halted. The sellsword stopped in his tracks a moment later. "I'm not thanking you," she bit back. Bronn smirked, "Wouldn't expect you to," he quipped, walking ahead to catch up with Podrick Payne.

The Dragonpit had changed since Sandor had brought her in the middle of the night. The burnt skulls of the victims from the Spring Fever had been removed, the stone floor repaired to some degree, and the caving doomed roof had been removed completely. Only small dragon skulls remained, and they had been swept to the side. It seemed as if they had gone through great effort to make the decaying pit presentable.

The wight had been enough to prove the truth of the threat. When it raced toward Cersei the fear in her eyes was palpable, and that had been enough to start negotiations on the impending truce. Though when she demanded neutrality from Jon, Anya felt her throat constrict, he had, perhaps foolishly, already proclaimed his allegiance to Daenerys Targaryen.

There was silence once more. Daenerys, Davos, Cersei, Jaime, and everyone else in attendance turned to look at Jon. But the King in the North drew in a heavy breath and looked back toward the gate from which they had entered. "I am true to my word, or I try to be," for a moment Anya had to remind herself that it was not Ned speaking, it was Jon. "That is why I cannot give you what you ask. I cannot serve two queens." He looked between Dany and Cersei, one shocked, the other infuriated. "I have already pledged myself to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen." Between the fallen expression on the Dragon Queen's face and Cersei's cold indifference, Anya knew that they had now truly failed.

"Then there is nothing left to discuss. The dead will come north first. Enjoy dealing with them. We will deal with whatever is left of you," Cersei stood from her seat and turned in stride back toward the keep. She took a handful of steps in haste but stopped in her tracks, her party stopped as well. When the proclaimed Queen of the Seven Kingdoms turned, she wore a smirk that could only be conjured by someone unequivocally mad. "Oh wait," there was mirth and satisfaction in her words as if she had planned this all along. Jon straightened and Daenerys looked up from her clasped hands, "perhaps there is a way I can ensure your cooperation with the crown."

There was silence within the Dragonpit. Cersei looked over the traitors in her presence, her gaze lingering on one in particular. She had them in the palm of her hand and should she wish it they could all be crushed. Cersei Lannister pointed toward Anya Whent. "She stays."

The words didn't seem real. Sandor stepped up behind her, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "What?" Jon questioned in disbelief. Anya seemed oddly calm at the prospect of becoming a political hostage again. A pawn in the great game of thrones. She knew how to navigate the treachery of King's Landing. "Lady Anya will remain here in King's Landing as assurance that neither of you will try to take the throne until the enemy in the North is dealt with."

"No!" The King in the North exclaimed. He was willing to barter with the Lannisters to come to an agreement, but using his aunt, the woman who had raised a motherless bastard, was not something he could do. Not even if it meant ten thousand more blades to fight the enemy to the north. Anya Whent gripped onto Jon's hand. "If this is what it takes then I will stay," her voice was low, dangerous almost.

He looked at his aunt and up to the Hound, as if asking him to do something. There was a second's glance cast in the Dragon Queen's direction but she sat motionless, the surprise in her lilac eyes thinly veiled. "I'm not leaving you in the lion's den."

Anya's smile was fleeting and despondent. She had a duty to protect Jon and all of Ned's children, if that meant being in the claws of a lioness, she would do so, willingly. "I'm a bat, Jon," she reminded him, softly, "I can fly away."  _Fly by night_ , those were the words of her house.

"This isn't part of the plan," Jon bit back.

"Plans change," Anya told him.

The King in the North looked down his nose at his aunt, "She'll kill you the first opportunity she gets." Anya knew that was probably true, but she was a Stark by name, with wolf blood in her veins. When death came, it would not be able to say that she was a willing companion, that she went without a fight. Jon saw the cold determination in her eyes and knew that exchange was done.

Sandor gripped onto her shoulder, ready to follow her into the waiting storm, but she turned to face him. It seemed there was nothing either of them could say in the moment. It was a silent and knowing exchange. Anya slid the small silver ring off her middle finger and slipped it into his palm, unsure of whether she meant it as a promise or a farewell.

Anya Whent turned away from Jon and Sandor and walked with her head held high toward where Cersei and her delegation stood waiting.

* * *

 

The room was empty asides from the reanimated corpse of Gregor Clegane standing guard at the door. Anya watched the Mountain with a sense of unease welling up in her gut. The small pieces of his skin that were visible through the black helmet, didn't even look like skin at all. It was a festering mess, a purplish color that oozed, giving his eyes a constantly bloodshot appearance. But maybe his new appearance was the god's cruel form of irony for what he did to Sandor as a child.

She rose from the table, watched the Mountain settle his hand over the hilt of longsword, and moved to the open windows. The city looked dead from the high tower of the Red Keep. It was silent in comparison to the cacophony of noise that was present in the summer. Anya frowned, the citizens of King's Landing were not prepared for the winter and they certainly were not prepared for the Great War.

The doors of the holding chamber opened and Anya turned back, hiding her startled expression. Cersei strode forward, her shoes echoing off the stone floor with every step. "Have you missed it here in King's Landing, Lady Anya?" The queen asked, her back to Anya as she poured two glasses of dark red wine.

Cersei pressed one of the goblets into Anya's hand and smirked when she looked down at the blood-colored liquid with apprehension. "There's no point in killing you, not yet," she mused, taking a long drink from her own goblet. "So tell me, have you missed it?" The question turned into a harsh sneer.

Anya set the wine down on the small table and clasped her hands in front of her. "Take no offense when I say no." King's Landing had been the last thing on her mind since learning Sansa was no longer in the lion's claws. In truth, she wanted to see the dreaded city burn.

"You always had a way with words," Cersei mused as she brought the pewter goblet of wine to her lips. Anya watched her, oddly at ease for someone who had just become a political hostage. Perhaps that was what irked Cersei the most. She had hoped to see her scream, cry, fight, but instead, she had watched the ship that bore her to the capital sail from the Blackwater and into the Narrow Sea. "What was it you told me once?" she asked, smirking, "ah yes, some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall."

The Queen Regnant looked over Anya Stark. Time away from the city had given her a battle-hardened look. The features of her face were sharper, her grey eyes looked less like clouds and more like steel. Then there were the scars, only some of which were visible. The soft, gentle lady who had first arrived in the Capital with her brother was gone. A true Stark set in front of her, right down to the unreadable expression on her face. Cersei poured a second glass of wine and slid it across the table to Anya. "It seems a common thing that Starks fall by virtue."

There was a brief moment of silence that was interrupted by several Lannister men marching into the room. Anya glanced between them and Cersei. "Your chambers await you." Their hands seized her biceps, pulling her from the room and dragging her down the hall.

It was her old chambers within the Keep that the guards escorted her to. They had opened the heavy wooden door, pushed her into the dark room, and quickly locked it. Books that she had left unread were stacked on her bedside table, a half-empty decanter of wine still set on her windowsill. Fine dresses of silk and Myrish lace partly hung limply out of the wardrobe, like ghosts of a time long past.

Anya went to the drawing table, retrieved a piece of flint and set upon lighting the half-burned candles and the hearth. Soft golden light filled the room with warmth, though the flames flickered every time a breeze caught the sheer curtains. She threw open the coffer at the foot of her bed and let out a strangled sob at the sight of a pale birch bow, the grip engraved with vines and roses. Anya Whent sat in the middle of her chambers, on the cold stone floor, and clutched the bow to her chest.

The knock was harsh and startled her from what would have been a fitful sleep. Locks slid open from the outside of the room and then the door was pushed open. Bronn stood in the doorway with a torch in hand. "Let's go, Lady Anya. You're knight in shining armor awaits." She rubbed her eyes and furrowed her brows, sitting up on the bed. Bronn frowned, "Get off your arse, woman. The Hound's waiting." There was no sign of treachery in his voice or expression, only eager to be done with the task at hand.

In haste, she pulled on her boots, tied the heavy black cloak off below her chin, picked up a small pack of her belongings, and slung the birch bow across her back. Anya pulled the hood of her cloak up and followed closely behind the sellsword, her hand resting on the small dagger at her hip in case this was some kind of cruel trick. Bronn led her toward one of the secret passageways and ushered her forward. Cersei looked down from her balcony over the courtyard and saw two figures escaping into the dark of night. She smirked into her wine glass.

From the Red Keep, they emerged on the Street of Silk. "He's through the Dragon Gate, but we'll have to get past the Gold Cloaks." Anya nodded and pulled her dagger free from its sheath.

There had only been three guards posted. The first fell silently with an arrow in his neck. The second, Bronn had dispatched. Anya drove her dagger into the third guard's neck from behind, when she wrenched the knife free, warm blood coated her hand. "Why are you helping me?" She asked, slightly out of breath.

"You might think it," the sellsword started in a matter-of-fact tone, "but you don't have an enemy in Jaime Lannister, not anymore." Anya frowned. Jaime Lannister had watched as the Mad King burned Rickard and Brandon Stark, he had left Ned for dead in the streets of Kings Landing, he had killed Jory, because of him Robb and Catelyn were dead. Given half the chance she would be eager to drive a knife into his heart.

They left through the Dragon Gate and in the sparse line of trees outside of the walls was a horse and rider. He let go of the reigns and stepped toward her. "Sandor," she breathed, rushing into his arms. Sandor looked her up and down, then bent down and captured her lips with his for a brief second. "Didn't think I'd let them leave you here, did you?" He asked and the low question danced across her lips. She smiled, kissing him again, this time without reserve.

Anya turned back to thank Bronn, but the sellsword was already gone.

Sandor picked her up and set her on Stranger's saddle before mounting behind her. The black warhorse started off away toward the North. At the highest hill outside the city, they stopped for a moment and looked back down at King's Landing.  _We've done this before_ , Anya mused. Only this time the Blackwater was not afire, instead, soft flakes of snow fell from the sky. Winter was here.


	48. Forty-Six

The rendezvous point for the siege of Harrenhal was the Crossroads Inn. That was the faction of Unsullied placed under her command would be waiting. That was the location she had used in her letter sent to the North. She and Sandor arrived in the dead of night. Smoke flittered up into the cold air from the stone chimneys, a handful of windows had sallow candles burning, their small flames flickering in welcome.

He carried her from the stables to the inn and followed the old innkeeper up the stairs to an empty room with a fire already burning in the hearth. "You've been awfully quiet," Sandor mused as he pulled off his boots and shed the heaviest layers of his clothing. Anya did the same, though she only shrugged at the question. There was a lot weighing on her mind and heart, and somethings she could not manage to put into words.

The Hound sat on the edge of the bed and worked the soreness out of his scarred leg. Anya Whent stepped between his legs and cradled his burned face in her hands. "I'm glad you waited," she whispered. In truth, she hadn't known what to expect when she agreed to remain behind. She had already thought of a hundred ways to escape the capital, though none seemed feasible. Sandor gripped onto her thighs and looked up at her. He still believed she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"King in the North wasn't about to leave you behind," he rasped. She knew Jon had not wished to leave her behind in King's Landing, and she liked to think that Sandor despised the idea as well. He pulled her down onto his lap with a harsh tug. "Neither was I," he added.  _I'm not letting you out of my sight, again_.

He kissed her and she kissed him back. "Seven hells," he rasped, breaths ragged. Anya brought her lips to the divot in his tunic that exposed the top of his chest. The tendrils of his hair tickling her nose as she planted delicate kisses on his skin. She could feel his heartbeat quickening. "What have done to me, little rose?"

He moved slowly, but deliberately. It almost made Anya laugh. After all she had endured, after all they had endured, he was still adamant in using excess caution in these intimate moments. "I'm not made of glass," she whispered, words dancing over his lips and scarred cheek. That made him chuckle, a low and deep sound that reverberated in his chest.

Sandor pushed her back onto the small featherbed. He braced his weight on his forearms, but Anya could see that his left shoulder shook, having never fully healed. "Aye," he replied, leaning down so close that she could just feel the tickle of his beard against her cheek and neck, "but you're not Valyrian Steel either."

* * *

 

"Anya?" She jumped and her horse startled as well. The man had soft and dark coppery curls with piercing blue eyes to match the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. He was wrapped in a burgundy doublet with a bastard sword on his hip. Anya looked at him closely in the low light of morning hours and smiled when she saw the sigil on his breast. A silver fist on a scarlet field. House Glover.

"Galbart?" There was disbelief in her voice. It seemed odd to think the awkward lordling that had sought her hand in marriage had turned into such a handsome knight. There was a soft smile on his roughened face. "Oh my dear, gentle wolf," he breathed, taking her into his arms.

"It is good to see you," she muttered into his soft leather doublet. Familiar faces were growing harder to come by after the wars. He backed away and tipped her chin up, catching the thin silvery scars that the low light of the stable illuminated. "Beautiful as ever, time has not diminished you in the slightest."

There was another man behind her, dressed in heavy black leathers with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. "Erac!" He stepped forward and bent down to take her hand, "M'lady." Despite his propriety, Anya took the Northman into her arms. Erac stiffened at the contact but soon relented and wrapped one of his arms around her waist.

She stepped back and looked at the two men, glad beyond words that they had heeded her invitation to join in the reclamation of Harrenhal. "You've arrived just in time. We're planning the siege."

The Crossroads Inn was a small hub for treacherous activities. A single table had been pushed into the center of the main room, on it lay pieces of parchment and charcoal along with poor representations of house markers. Around that table was Anya Whent, Lady of Harrenhal by birth and name, and surrounding her were members of the country folk, Unsullied, and proper men of the court.

Anya felt that all her life and experiences had been a culmination for this point. All her days spent at Ned's side, the hard years of training, and maneuvering through the Game of Thrones had led her to this point. One which she had always dreamed of.

It was a crude drawing of Harrenhal at best. The walls were outlined, as were the towers and border of the Gods Eye. A handful of winterberries served as markers for the Lannister ranks and for their measly band of misfits there were three chips of charred wood.

"The castle is too heavily guarded to be taken by surprise." It was the innkeeper that had supplied that bit of information, and even if the statement proved to be a falsehood at least they would have been prepared for numbers far greater than their own. However, surprise was still an element they had to utilize. Anya Whent doubted that the Lannisters had taken the time to learn the dark passageways of the cursed castle as she had once done as a troublesome child.

Anya shook her head. Though it had been years, she remembered Harrenhal inside and out. The hidden doors and traps, and every burnt brick. "No, it isn't." She pointed at the map to where the water of the lake brushed against the stone walls. "There is a hidden gate on the shore of the Gods Eye. Half ruined and secured by the water." It was a gate she had snuck out of many times on her adventures to slay sea creatures and swim with mermaids. She picked up a piece of charcoal and marked an 'x' where the gate was.

It would take a small party to reach the hidden gate and enter without drawing excess attention. Once inside they could open the main gate and let the Unsullied enter to deal the finishing blow. "We all cannot march there," she glanced around those who stood closest to the table. "It will have to be a coterie that enters and opens the main gates."

There was silence, only broken by the crackling of the burning wood in the hearth. Galbart Glover unsheathed his sword and laid it on the table without hesitation, his steely eyes met Anya's with the cold determination of a Northman. "My sword is yours to command, my lady." A smile pulled at her lips. "As is mine," Erac Cleaber added, crossing his own crudely forged sword over Galbart's.

The handful of Unsullied under her command knocked the butt of their spears on the creaking wood floor. "We fight," announced Black Prawn, the leader of the small band of freed slaves. Sandor rested his hand on Anya's shoulder. It would have been a waste of breath for him to offer his sword, to swear his fealty. His sword had been hers for quite some time, as had his heart. She squeezed his hand and turned to look up at him when the Inn door was thrown open.

"Is it too late to join this party?" It was Meg and Melly who entered the Inn, snow still lingering in their hair and on their cloaks. Anya hadn't thought she'd ever see the healers from the Brotherhood again, but they came offering their skills and supplies. No battle had ever come to pass without a scrape or bruise had been what Melly said, Anya was inclined to believe that she spoke the truth.

Her attention returned to the drawn map and to the thick lines that represented the shores of the God's Eye. "There's a place along the God's Eye where we can set up camp, its hidden from sight even from the tallest tower." She pointed to a spot on the eastern side of the lake, where a small jetty of land had been added. That had been one of her secret spots as a child. She would take her pony and a stash of bread and cheese from the kitchen with a handful of books and spend the day under the thick trees reading away.

Everyone in the room looked at her, waiting, listening. The sooner the retook the castle, the sooner repairs could be made, the sooner people could seek refuge within the monstrous stone curtain walls. "If the snow holds out then we should leave in the morning and make it there by sundown."

Swords and spears had been sharpened, arrows had been made. All the supplies needed for a siege had been loaded into the back of a small wagon to be pulled by a single horse. When morning came, it did not come with sunlight, it came with the overcast skies that were a warning that winter was coming, that soon these lands would be blanketed with snow and ice.

By midday, Harrenhal was looming on the horizon, broken, bent, and burned. Had anyone seen them from the ramparts of the castle, they would have looked like nothing more than people fleeing to the south from the cold. It took several more hours for them to round the God's Eye and come to its eastern borders and the hidden alcove.

Anya walked to the lake's edge and knelt, brushing her fingertips along the soft light blue petals of a flower she had only ever seen north of Winterfell. "Forsythia," she noted in a hushed breath. The notes that Maester Luwin had written in his books on herbology flashed through her mind. It bloomed only once a year, for a single month and had narrow, sickle-shaped leaves of olive-green, with red thorns hidden beneath. The blooms through, ranged in color, from deep blue to amber. Luwin had noted that it could be used to treat mania or give a little boost to the spirit when fighting a minor affliction.

Galbart knelt next to her and ran his gloved hand through the small clustering of thorny flowers. "I did not know it grew so far south." Anya shook her head. Even with the years since her childhood within the charred walls of Harrenhal, she knew that Forsythia had never ventured to grow in the Riverlands. To see it now was a sign of winter or the coming of the Long Night. It was an ill omen.

"It never has," she whispered, her eyes darting over to Galbart. Galbart Glover brought her back to her feet and led her back to where the camp of being set. It had been settled over a bowl of watery stew and slices of brown bread that they would rest for the night and day and presume to take the castle the following night. There was no need to go into battle weary and hungry, not when they were so well hidden by the alcove of the God's Eye.

Sandor glared at the Northman from across the fire as he played a tune on a poorly tuned harp and sang of a lovely maiden with sunlight in her hair, seconds passed and Erac joined as well. "I don't like him," Sandor muttered, looking down into his tankard of watered wine. Anya couldn't be sure if he was talking about Galbart or Erac, or the both of them.

Anya leaned her head against Sandor's shoulder. "Jealousy does not suit you," she mused, there was a twinkle in her eye and her smile was one he had not seen in months. He huffed, puffing out his chest after he'd crossed his arms. He wasn't jealous, but perhaps he was and he just couldn't admit it to himself.

"Don't like the way he looks at you," he rasped. Anya cut her eyes up to the Hound and felt something odd tugging at her mind and heart. Her laugh was as sweet as any birdsong and rippled through the encampment.

She pulled one of his hands free and lazily slipped her fingers through his. His hand completely enclosed her own, a bitter reminder of delicate his little rose was. "If it's any consolation when he offered me his hand I sent him running back to the Deepwood with his tail between his legs." That was a spring feast she still remembered well. Benjen and Ned had howled in laughter when she rejected his eloquently worded proposal. Catelyn had been thoroughly appalled.

Galbart Glover wasn't quite a boy at the time, nor was he a man. The whiskers on his chin hadn't even filled in all the way. Now the opposite was true, the ginger curls on his head were matched by a well-kept beard. He was quite handsome and a proper gentleman. But that wasn't what Anya had wanted twenty years ago and it still wasn't what she wanted now.

Anya met Galbart's sharp blue eyes across the fire and gave him a frangible smile in return. "I value his friendship and all I ask is that you respect that."

Sandor pursed his lips together and shrugged. "Doesn't mean I have to like him." Anya sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder again, content, "No, I suppose it doesn't."

Time passed and she grew oddly silent, it was only when Sandor glanced down at her did he realize she was falling asleep. "Almost forgot," he started, pulling something from a pocket sewn on the inside of his cloak, "your ring." The silver band was dwarfed by the size of his palm. In truth, she had already forgotten about the ring but regardless she took it and slipped it back onto her finger. Sandor had to wonder if she had placed it on her marriage hand on purpose, regardless, he wrapped an arm around her waist and draped his cloak over the both of them. 

Nearly everyone had retired to their tents or sleeping rolls. Though Galbart Glover still sat by the fire, transfixed by the flickering flames that were steadily growing smaller. Anya Whent had fallen asleep and the Hound dared not move lest he wake her. She needed to rest and he could go without. The Northman glanced at them for only a second before he turned his gaze back down and stoked at the embers. Years ago he had dreamed of a fair beauty like her.

“When are you going to tell her, Clegane?” Galbart had his fair share of being amongst soldiers and when it came to matters of the heart most of them were obstinate, he suspected that the Hound was no different. Sandor Clegane glared across the fire. A man with common sense would have been on his feet running, the Northman only shook his head with a derisive type of smile. The infamous Hound may have been a brute, but his actions around Anya Whent said otherwise. “I’m not blind," Galbart riposted. "I see the way you look at each other.”

He looked down at her, took in her soft features again, the way her cheeks had gone rosy by the fire, the shadows cast by her lashes, and the slight parting of her pink lips. He didn't doubt his feeling for her, not anymore, but he wasn't a wordsmith, he wasn't a knight or proper lord that knew the right things to say and when to say it. He was just an old dog. “She deserves better than me.”

Galbart Glover shook his head and stood from the downed sentinel tree. “I bet she’d beg to differ,” he countered before retiring for the night.


	49. Forty-Seven

Anyatightened the buckles of her leathers and adjusted the swordbelt that rested above her hips. She slid Dark Sister into its sheath and looked around at those who would be joining her to breach the castle. Satisfied with her own leathern armor, she turned toward Sandor Clegane and took hold of his forearm to properly tighten the strings and straps of his vambrace. A poor excuse to be close to him, really.

"Sandor," she said, quietly, not able to bring herself to meet his gaze. Instead, she looked over to the small group of Unsullied warriors, who hefted up their shields and spears. "I need you to lead them through the front gates." Anya looked up at him then and saw that his eyes had hardened.

"Fuck that," he spat. She had expected resistance, but those words stung in a way she did not think possible. Anya frowned, though she continued to occupy herself with his vambrace until it was laced up and in place.

"Please," she breathed, "I need you here, to lead the attack once the gates are opened." Anya laid one of her hands on his chest, the other she pressed against his cheek, just barely combing her fingers through his coarse beard. "I'll come back," she smiled and pushed herself up on the tips of her toes, placing a sweet and short kiss on his lips, "I always do." He knew she was telling the truth.

Anya pulled off the silver ring from her finger and the leather thong that held back her hair. She slipped the ring onto the piece of leather and pressed it into his hand as a promise before turning away to join the small fellowship of men that had pledged their swords to her cause.

Galbart Glover trailed closer behind Anya Whent as she led them along the shoreline toward the towering monstrosity that was Harrenhal. Sandor would be leading his own troop to the main gates to ready for the true siege. The Northman rushed forward suddenly, seizing Anya's wrist in a manner that made her want to draw her own sword.

Beneath the hood of his dark leather cloak, she could see his piercing blue eyes burning into her. The seven men that were to follow her direct command halted. "Are you out of your mind to leave the Hound outside the gate?"

Anya ripped her arm away from his grasp. "Do not question my motives, Galbart," she snapped. Her once soft eyes had hardened into the hardest steel. He had seen that look in her eyes before when he had inquired of Eddard Stark if he could wed his sister. She had said no, of course, and sent him running back to his lord father's holdfast.

But then his expression softened, as did hers, he had seen that look before in many girls eyes. "Has it truly happened? The stubborn wolf fallen for an old hound?" Came his bemused question, but he already knew the answer. It was obvious the moment he had seen the way they looked at each other.

"Shut it, Galbart," there was a ghost of a smile on her lips, "or I might just mistake you for a Lannister."

The shores of the Gods Eye were eerie in the silence of the night. The water was black and bottomless, lapping at the land like a hungry beast, eager to mangle and devour.

Just as Anya had stated, there was an old smuggler's tunnel that ran beneath the thick walls of Harrenhal, guarded by just an old, rusted portcullis and chain. Galbart slammed the pommel of his sword against the paddock, severing it and the chain.

Disuse had made the passageway seem more like a crypt than anything. Cobwebs had gathered on the ceiling, bricks had fallen from the walls, and stagnant water puddled in the low points of the earthen floor.

They emerged from the tunnel and into the bowels of the Tower of Ghosts, a desolate part of the castle that no one, save a young and adventurous Anya Whent, dared to frequent. The most ruined of the all the castle's towers, some still swore that you could see the maimed specter of Harren the Black wandering on dark nights.

She waved her small party over behind the abandoned sept and along the edge of the inner wall. The first gate was open but guarded. Anya looked over her shoulder at Erac Cleaber and nodded. He strung his bow and nocked an arrow, aiming at the single guard patrolling the parapet of the inner wall. The whistle of the arrow cut through the silence and found its mark. The guard fell backward but remained unseen on the wall.

The posted guards fell silently into the night by sharp blades and arrows alike, only when the gate was raised did the coterie draw attention to themselves. By then it was too late, thirty good men had flooded through the outer and inner walls with swords and spears drawn as the sun began to rise. The Lannister forces couldn't prepare themselves fast enough as they streamed from the barracks.

The Unsullied cried out and the ringing sound of swords clashed in the yard like a harsh song. Anya parried one stroke of the blade and drove her own sword deep into the belly of the red cloak before wrenching it out with a sickening cry. Blood spattered her armor and face.

She held the blade even, a perfect, undaunted horizon; always leveled with the nose, just as her brothers had taught her. She had stalled the man's strike but watched a wretched, stained grin split the Lannister's lips.

He came at her with no reserve, hacking, and slashing. Anya parried each stroke until one fell upon her forearm and cut both leather and flesh. The suddenness of the jolting pain made her drop Dark Sister to the muddy ground. She stumbled back, fumbling for her dagger as the man raised his sword.

Another blow never came. Sandor pushed the limp body from his blade and pulled Anya back to her feet before turning away, dispatching another red cloak. She pulled Dark Sister from the mud and charged into the crowded courtyard without hesitation.

She had not lost any men, but there was always wounded. Among the maesters and village herbalists, there were a dozen self-taught healers that Meg and Melly had brought for the cause.

Galbart had come to stand by her side, his own ragged breaths matched hers. He had a fresh cut on his cheek and mud spattered all over him. But even so, he was a fair sight to look upon after a battle. Erac stumbled forward, smiling despite his disheveled state and fell to his knees in front of her. The longsword he presented her belonged to the castle's commander, "Harrenhal is yours, Lady Anya."

Anya Whent took the blade from his hands and set it aside. She looked around the rubble and shell of the great castle, scanning for one person in particular. "Where is he?" She breathed. Galbart motioned toward the group of wounded and then she was running.

"Sandor," she fretted over his bleeding arms and side even if Melly and Meg reassured her that it was little more than a scrape that could easily be bandaged.

Anya didn't know what she wished to do in the moment, but Sandor knew well what he wanted. He pulled on a curl that had escaped braids and leather ties and her smile was like the sun, beautiful and blinding. "It's over," she breathed softly, "we did it." He nodded, though the words she had just spoken did not fully register with him.

Sandor Clegane pulled down on her wrist in a manner that made her stumbled forward and into his lap. He took her into his arms again, using all his strength to be gentle, and let his lips touch hers so lightly he could hardly feel it. She smiled against his rough lips and leaned into him, uncaring of who witnessed.

"I don't think it's deep enough to warrant stitches or a burning," Melly said, looking over the long cut on her forearm. Meg brought over a pail of water and a jar of clear liquor. They were careful to clean the dirt away before dousing the antiseptic over the cut. Anya gritted her teeth together at the stinging pain but reminded herself she had endured far worse than a measly cut.  _Yes_ , she thought to herself,  _I am steel now, forged in pain and loss_.

A clean white linen bandage was secured in place and with that, the two healers shooed her away so that they may continue tending to nicks and scrapes. Erac Cleaber came forward with a soft smile and lowered his head. "Come, m'lady, we've found something for you." Galbart Glover smiled and joined the pair. In the great hall, pushed to the side, were chests and coffers filled with relics of previous houses. The one that Galbart and Erac stopped at had the sigil of House Whent branded into the dark wood.

It was an old wooden trunk, half rotten in places, but the Northman pulled back the lid to reveal the contents. Anya's breath caught. The trunk was filled with fine dresses, her mother's dresses to be certain, and jewels that were heirlooms of House Whent. She picked up a deep blue gown. The neckline was trimmed in tiny beads and sapphires, the black silk belt embossed with the sigil of her house. It was the dress Shella Whent had worn at the Tourney.

Tucked away beneath that was a blush dress of lace and silk. Anya Whent pulled the dress from the trunk and held it in her arms like a corpse of someone she loved. Erac reached to grasp a pelt of golden fur, "You are the Lady of Harrenhal," he said softly. She turned her gaze to him, startled by the use of her new title. "Let them see you."

* * *

 

Anya stood amongst the charred rubble of Harrenhal. In a pale dress of lace and silk with capelet of golden fur, she shone in comparison to the men that surrounded her in black and brown armor. The Valyrian sword, Dark Sister, was held high above her. "It's ours!" she cried, thrice over and then the call of the swordsmen came in response. "It's ours!"

Sandor withdrew his sword and drove the point into the ground, taking a knee before her. It only seemed like the right thing to do, his heart belonged to her and his sword would as well.

The rest of the men followed suit, only the Unsullied did not bend the knee before her. The open yard was silent, deathly so, Anya was frozen in place until she covered her mouth and let out a silent sob that all could hear. She wasn't sure if it was rooted in sadness or joy.

The day had finally come where she could make her mark upon the history of Harrenhal and write a new chapter for the castle that was not tainted with curses and blood. The Whent girl stepped down from the fallen pillar and stopped in front of Sandor. She placed her hand under his chin, a silent command that he stand.

They had gathered in the Great Hall after the celebratory meal, a poor excuse of a feast really, but one that had been well earned.

The Lady of Harrenhal gathered the members of the Unsullied that had seen her plan to completion. "Go north to Winterfell, it is where Daenerys will go," she told them. Anya looked past the small group of foreigners to those that still sat at the long tables, nursing tankards of ale and watered wine. She swallowed the lump in her throat and made her decision without another thought, "but stop at every home and village you come upon and tell those who cannot fight to come here." The ten of them nodded, they would depart in the morning after a good night's rest.

Anya pulled Sandor away from the table and out into the dusky light of a winter sunset. Sandor looked up at the Wailing Tower as they drew near the armory and barracks. Across the ward though, was the godswood. "Where are you leading me, woman?"

She smiled, "the godswood."

But the gods had forsaken this castle long ago. The faces and runes that had once been carved into the trees had faded, except for the horrific one etched into the smooth bark of the heart tree. The eyes and mouth both wept red sap that stained the ground around the large weirwood. There were thirteen slashes that marked the Dance of Dragons, too. In the spring they would bleed red again, but Anya wasn't sure that she'd live to see another spring.

It had been years since she had stood before the heart tree of Harrenhal. Anya reached out and placed her hand against the trunk of the tree and wondered what stories it could tell, because it, like all weirwood trees, were alive, watching.

Anya Whent sat beneath the tree and leaned against the trunk with a heavy sigh. She had what she had always dreamed of, but most of the people she had cared for in life had gone. Mindlessly, she wiped away a stray tear.

Sandor Clegane knelt in front of her. "Anya." It still seemed odd to hear her name in his rough voice. She looked up at him and furrowed her brows when she realized he was looking at the ground. "Yes?" She queried. There was a distant and conflicted look in his eyes. "Sandor?"

He closed his eyes and grit his teeth together. "I -I," he knew it was something that needed to be said, he had known it ever since she had spoken the words and he knew that this was the right moment. But he wasn't a bard or a knight and the words didn't come easily. "I love you." Sandor Clegane wasn't sure if those words had been spoken aloud or just in his mind, though when he opened his eyes Anya Whent was smiling and that was the only answer he needed.

She slipped her hands into his, a flush of color had come to her cheeks that made her look like a timid young virgin. "I know."

Sandor looked up at the red leaves, "told myself that I wouldn't marry no one too."

Anya shrugged, "I chased away every man who ever asked for my hand." The noble lords and their sons were skittish of Anya Stark even she was still young. Her aspirations were too large, her manners to unladylike. Highborn lords did not wish for a wife that would challenge their authority.  _Then I suppose you'll have to find one that is a brash as you are_ , was what Benjen had told her, and she had.

Sandor laid his hand on her cheek and pushing back stray strands of honey hair, "but now, I'm thinking after this fucking war is over, that there's only one woman I'd marry and she won't be able to chase me away." His dark eyes flitted down to her parted lips, a pale pink that reminded him of a rosebud.

She leaned forward and kissed him. "I wouldn't want to chase you away," Anya murmured. He kissed her and the world fell away. It was slow and soft, comforting in ways that words would never be. His hand rested below her ear, his thumb caressing her cheek as their breaths mingled. She laid down fully, there was no space left between them and she could feel the beating of his heart against her chest.


	50. Forty-Eight

Erac Cleaber came into the castle's Great Hall with a man in tow who looked to be nothing more than a peasant. Though upon closer inspection Anya could see that his leathers were practically new and one of his gloves was half concealing a golden hand. "Intercepted this one on the Kingsroad, m'lady," he announced, shoving the Kingslayer forward. Sandor Clegane turned away from the fire, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword.

Anya stood from her place by the hearth and turned toward the queen's brother, masking her soured expression with one more becoming of a lady. "Jaime Lannister," she greeted with perfunctory courtesy.

"Anya Stark," he mockingly bowed, "or shall I call you Lady Whent now?" Her secret had gotten out, kept under wraps for nigh three decades but now all of Westeros knew that she was not a Stark. Not by birth, anyway.

She lifted her chin, unwilling to look small or timid. "Why are you not in King's Landing gathering your armies?" Anya had expected to see an army marching past Harrenhal in the coming days, but instead, the only Southron to venture north was the Kingslayer.

Jaime took in a deep breath, he supposed the truth would have to come out eventually and perhaps it was better to tell of Cersei's betrayal sooner rather than later. He'd prefer living enemies over dead ones. "I'm riding North," he stated, "I gave my word to fight against the enemy."

"Your word means nothing to me, Kingslayer," she spat. And though the Hound was one of the fiercest fighters in Westeros, it was not him that Jaime feared at the moment. She took a step toward him, recalling when she tended to Ned's wounds in the Hand's Tower. "You put a spear through my brother's leg," Anya continued, thinking about Lord Rickard and her sweet Brandon, burned alive and Jaime Lannister did nothing, "you-"

"-and not a day goes by that I don't think about the things I've done." He countered is the same venomous tone. "You don't have to remind me." No, he thought often about the things he had done in his lifetime and the reasons behind them. Given a second chance, he would do most of them again.

Anya bit down on her tongue. "The North Remembers, Jaime." Those monotonous words sent cold chills crawling down in spine. "They'll string you up as an oathbreaker and murderer."

He heaved a deep sigh and took a step closer to where she stood. "Then I suppose that's justice." Jaime Lannister met her steel gaze for only a second before looking down to the cracked stone floor.

This was a true Stark he stood before, not some meager little bat that would fly by the night. "Cersei will not uphold the truce." Anya had already known that though, so did Jon and Daenerys. Trusting Cersei's word was like trusting that a threatened snake would not bite. He raised his chin, standing like a proud lion, "but I will."

That told her all she needed to know about the man Jaime had become.

The men that she had surrounded herself with looked on, unsure and awaiting her command. Anya clasped her hands together and looked down into her palms at the callouses and scars. She had but a small amount of time to make a decision that could impact the direction of the coming storm. Decided, she lifted her chin back up. "Stay here for the night," she announced, "I'll send a raven ahead of you with a letter to Sansa, she's Lady of Winterfell now."

The Kingslayer looked shocked at that bit of information, but it quickly faded into a confident smirk. "You're going to great lengths to assure my safety, Lady Anya." There was still a mocking tone in his voice that she chose to overlook.

"You're living," she noted, "that means we're on the same side of this war now." Anya had already noticed his thin leathers and unlined cloak, had her men not stopped him on the road, he would have likely been dead before he could even reach Winterfell. "Besides, dressed like that you won't make it out of the Riverlands."

* * *

 

Sandor set down his horn of ale and glanced across the table with an unsettled expression. "I don't like it," he muttered and she knew that he meant Jaime Lannister. Nearly everyone that remained in the castle was unsettled by his presence, but Anya could not send him away when he wished to fight for the living and uphold his word. Everyone deserved a chance to be redeemed, even the Kingslayer.

She glanced down and picked at the dirt beneath her nails. It had been a long day between her dealing with him and the work that went into gathering the stocks of supplies that remained scattered around the castle. "Neither do I," Anya met Sandor's gaze and frowned, "but he wasn't lying."

"Don't like the look in your eyes either." It was a look he had never seen before. Her grey eyes were stern with requital and hate and reluctant respect. Anya Whent cursed him for being able to read her so easily. "I need closure," she began. The inner workings of his mind was a mystery, so were his allegiances, "I need to know why he did those things."

Sandor Clegane understood. He reached for her hand below of the table and gave it a gentle squeeze. "If the dead get ahold of him you won't have another chance," he noted. She drew in a deep breath and took a long drag of bitter wine, "I know."

Rymund the Rhymer strummed the strings of his lyre and silence fell over the great hall. In such troubling times, it was good to hear the gentle voice of a well-versed singer.

He rode through the streets of the city,  
down from his hill on high,

Anya saw from across the table that Jaime's expression had darkened, no doubt he saw the singer's song choice as a jab at himself and his house.

O'er the wynds and the steppes and  
the cobbles, he rode to a woman's sigh.

When the singer finished his songs, the Great Hall had begun to clear out as the fires in the hearth died down. Anya stood and smoothed down the skirt of her simple wool dress. Sandor turned on the bench, not yet standing and caught her wrist before she could move. He tugged her back and into his lap.

She splayed her hand against his chest, intending to push him away, but instead, she left it there and leaned in to kiss him. Sandor returned the kiss in full and was reluctant to part, though he knew there were things that she had to see to now that the opportunity had presented itself. He let her up and stood too. "Hurry back," he rasped and she nodded, lips curling upward.

She pushed open the rotting chamber doors and found that Jaime Lannister was sitting on a small wooden stool in front of the fire. He looked over his shoulder but did not move. "I need to know why you did it," Anya grit out.

"That could refer to a good number of things," his acerbic tone did not match the solemn expression on his face. Anya Whent sat next to him and perhaps for the first time noticed that his hair was no longer so golden, and the green of his eyes seemed to be faded.

She remembered when of her brother's guard had found her in the gardens and given her news that Lord Eddard had been attacked in the streets. She had not trusted Pycelle and took it upon herself to be his healer. Most of all, she remembered the anger that ran through her blood when Ned woke and told her it was the Kingslayer's doing, that he had killed Jory too. "Why did you attack my brother in the streets of King's Landing?"

His response came quicker than Anya imagined it would, "I did it to protect my family." Her brows settled into a deep furrow. "Tyrion had been wrongfully imprisoned, surely doomed to die at the hands of a vengeful mother." With the time that had passed, she had almost forgotten the Imp was once Catelyn's prisoner, that she had beholden him responsible for the attempt on Bran's life.

Jaime Lannister looked into the deep grey eyes of Anya Whent and knew that she was a Stark, not by blood, but in every other way that truly counted. "Tell me, Anya Stark, what would you have done to protect your brothers?" That struck a nerve.

Anya glanced into the roaring fire and wondered what it must have felt like. What had Lord Rickard and Sandor felt when their flesh was melting? She diverted her gaze back to Jaime. "I would have died for them," there was no uncertainty in her voice, only the coldness, and despair of loss. "I would have marched south with Brandon, I would have taken Ned's place on the stairs of Baelor," Anya swallowed and thought of the last time she had seen Benjen and how the wights had surrounded him. "I would have stood by Benjen's side while the dead surrounded us." All her brothers and her sister were dead, yet somehow she had endured. It wasn't fair.

"Love drives us to do unthinkable things." Now something tinged his voice, not regret, but something similar. "It makes monsters of us." He laughed and it unsettled Anya, but she did not back down. "I drove my sword through the Mad King's back to protect my father from burning," he began, "risked execution when I helped Tyrion escape to Essos after murdering our father because he is my brother and I love him."

He looked down at his hands, one flesh, the other golden. He had lost his sword hand to protect the giant of woman that he had grown to love. "Everything I have done has been to protect the ones I love."

She swallowed the lump that had grown in her throat at the realizations. In silence, Anya rose and made her way to the doors of his temporary chambers, though when she reached them, she looked over her shoulder and saw that he had returned to watching the flames. "I think, at last," she said softly, "we understand one another."

The next morning Jaime Lannister was astride his horse, dressed in thick layers with a fur-lined cloak taken from the stores of Harrenhal. A token of goodwill and safe travels. He had seen the raven leave the rookery with a scroll attached to its foot. A letter to Winterfell, to inform Sansa of Cersei's betrayal and Jaime's intentions.

He looked down at her from the saddle. Snow had begun to fall and cling to her hair and lashes. She looked at home with Sandor Clegane standing at her side, like she had been born to reclaim Harrenhal and endure the Long Night. Jaime Lannister bowed his head. "Farewell, Lady Anya."

* * *

 

Five days later the first of the refugees came through the old thick gates of the dilapidated castle. They brought with them all the possessions that they could carry in arms or on the back of mules and horses. Within a week there were almost a hundred people and with those numbers, they began the reconstruction of the great castle that would house them through the coming night and storm.

Slaves had built the massive castle but now people laid fallen brick and mortar of their own free will. It was a safe haven that they would be able to call their own when the winter and war had come to pass.

The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was the first area to be repaired and restored. Beneath the slate roof hundreds of people whose homes had been burned during the war found refuge among those who could not hope to fight the true enemy. There were injured hedge knights, blacksmiths, carpenters, stonemasons, farmers, and cooks, and they all had a place to rest in Harrenhal.

The silence of the night was split by the cries of a young child. Anya instinctively stirred, almost forgetting the time that had passed and that it was not Jon's cries that had woke her. Sandor begrudgingly lifted his arm, letting her out of his embrace.

From the gallery above she could see a woman frantically bouncing a baby on her knee and cooing, yet it still wailed. She approached the young mother and knelt. "Apologies, m'lady," the mother stuttered, red-faced and panicked.

Anya shook her head. "There is no need to apologize." After a moment Anya extender her arms toward the child. "May I?" She asked, looking down at the squalling child. The woman nodded and passed the swaddled babe into her awaiting arms. Anya began to murmur the Song of the Seven, whilst rocking the child in her arms.

She came to the Maiden's verse but thought of the Stranger instead, who no one dared sing or pray to.

The Stranger's face is blank and bare,  
He grants no boon, he heeds no prayer,  
Behold his power and despair,  
For he spares not the little children.

The small babe looked up at her with wide, silent eyes.

Sandor looked down from the gallery and saw her soft figure illuminated by the glowing embers of the fire. Her honey hair had turned into a golden crown. Among those that had sought refuge in Harrenhal, she looked to be a beacon of light. A candle that would burn itself to give others warmth and light. Sandor Clegane had come to think of her as a rose that was always in bloom. At times a petal would wilt and fall, but it was replaced by another. An endless cycle that could last so long has little rose had petals left to spare.

 


End file.
